Blindsided
by PhantomMemories
Summary: What If' AU- England doesn't shoot at the critical moment in his last battle during America's revolution, but one of his men starts up the battle again, and changes everything. Kink Meme De-anon. Leaning towards US/UK. Sorry.
1. England: 1781

The rain turned the battlefields to a soupy mud, driving visibility to near zero.

It really didn't matter, since the youth that was at the center of England's attention was so close that he could see the whites of his eyes.

He looked exhausted, scraped, bruised, spattered with blood that could've been his own, or someone else's, all running in the rain. Arthur knew he didn't look any better- actually, he knew his appearance was much worse. After eight years of fighting, he was losing this war.

"...From now on, I'm independent!" the words worked their way through the haze of bone-weary tiredness. America had been repeating the same things for years, and England was so very tired of hearing them. "England, I choose liberty. Acknowledge it- "  
The fool. Alfred was so sure of himself. So certain of his own victory that he'd dropped his guard.

Something in Arthur snapped at the words, and he whipped his rifle back up, charging the short distance to Alfred before the younger could do more than block the bayonet with his own rifle. A quick and powerful flick of his arms sent the weapon flying from his opponent's hands, leaving America wide-eyed with surprise- and possibly fear. Those sky-blue eyes.

"You fool... so naive.." He had the advantage. He had Alfred- America at his mercy. If he shot now, this would all be over. Vaguely, Arthur heard an order to fire, unsure whether it was Alfred's desperate troops or his own.

For a long minute, he stared at the boy he had raised, the memories of happier times tormenting him. How trusting, how lovingly those eyes gazed up at him- how neatly the child's hand had fit in his own as they walked together.

"Idiot..." The water sliding down his cheeks now was warm, and his breath came out in something resembling a sob. No. He couldn't cry. He was an Empire- but he couldn't kill this beautiful child. _His_ beautiful child- England had already been defeated. The rifle fell from numb hands, splashing in the mud beside Alfred's. England fell to his knees in the cold mud, closing his eyes. "There's... there's no point in firing, is there."

"England... " He could no longer contain the hurt. Arthur let out a sob. "You-"

In the back of his mind he registered the sharp crack as the firing of a musket. British standard issue- The sound of impact, and the feel of something hot splattering his face.

His eyes flew open at the inarticulate cry of pain, to see Alfred holding his hands over his face- over his eyes.

Arthur had but a moment to reach out before the staggering figure fell, hands falling away, revealing the bloody mess where his eyes had been. (Beautiful blue, like the skies and the southern seas, one could get lost in those eyes full of life-)

"Oh God- No!" The body slumped over him, red blood soaking into his redder coat. "No-"  
"You used to be so big..." the words were whispered, slurred, as consciousness fled his former colony.

It took more than that to kill a nation, which is what Alfred had become.

Arthur knew this, as he gently laid the boy down, the shock stopping his own tears.

"No..." The colonists- the Americans, Alfred's people were advancing, anger in their faces, and he had to retreat. Had to leave. He had lost this war, as soon as he dropped his gun. But his boy-

The memory of that moment haunted him all the way back to London.


	2. England: 1817

**October, 1817**

Matthew hasn't forgiven him.

England couldn't remember the exact moment that he realized that Canada was angry.

Sweet, innocent _Matthew_ holding a grudge, but still obedient. At least until now.

Arthur had been so distracted by France's pitiful attempts at conquest, that he'd missed the fire in those violet eyes. His troops had been paying for it- England's soldiers had been attempting to squash America's attempts to gain more territory. To force Arthur to acknowledge again what he hadn't been able to articulate that day nearly forty years ago before- And Matthew's people had barely aided them. It almost looked as though they _wanted_ to be a part of America.

And now this meeting a final setting of terms between all countries involved- hopefully they could put an end to the fighting and soon.

"Angleterre, mon ami, it looks as though your American boy is striking out blindly-" Arthur flinched as the words came from the Frenchman. Tentative peace between them kept him from outright strangling the frog most of the time, however the choice of words... "You should have left his people alone."

"False documentation is not a proof of citizenship, and you bloody well know it." The argument was halfhearted. The icy chamber that they waited in made England doubt his sanity at asking Francis' along for anything, let alone moral support.

"What is wrong?" Francis was draped across a chair, casually watching Arthur pace the office. "This is not like you to ask a favor from me..."  
"I needed someone around to translate just in case Matthew lapses into that bloody language you taught him."

"That is a lie," Francis was smiling. "You have people who know the language. Is it the possibility that petit Alfred might be here in a moment?"

"You annoy me, Frog." Arthur couldn't quite control the tic at the mention of the name. Of course he knew that Alfred would be there. All countries involved would be represented. But as an ally of America, perhaps France had seen him... "How long has it been since you've seen him?"

"Around '77," The reply coming more easily than Arthur had expected, "After that I was... how shall I put it. Busy."

Of course. His own revolution had been sneaking up on him for some time. It might have been years after the American one had ended, however...

"Angleterre, I have heard many rumors. I know that he was wounded in his last battle with you..." Francis had risen, slipped his arms around England.

Arthur froze for a moment, and jammed his elbow into the other man's ribs.

"I'm surprised that you didn't do that sooner," Francis said after his yelp of pain, and withdrawal . "Are you going to tell me why you really invited me along?"

"Matthew is very angry." England admitted reluctantly, "Very angry. With me. I thought having you here might temper that."

"Pourquois?" Francis said the word low and in his ear. Arthur didn't bother fighting off the arm that was slipped around his shoulder. "Why? He has always been a biddable boy-"

"So gentle and obedient that I never noticed when he began to slip away from me, just like-"

The sound of a door opening and closing interrupted England before he could say the name. France's arm fell away as they turned as one to face the men who had just entered.

But only Matthew, precious Matthew stood before them.

His build and face were so much like his twin's- like Alfred's- that Arthur started. It had been the same look of fierce determination on another boy's face, as he told his guardian that he wanted to be independent. But the cold amethyst eyes told him that this was Matthew, and England had better listen.

"England, I choose liberty." The words echoed, a hard edge to them. Francis made a little noise of surprise, "I choose to be independent. What do you say?"

"Where is America? How is-"

"He and I have come to an agreement, which is none of your business anymore." The cold anger had been cemented. "What is your answer?"

In that look, Arthur- England- saw the promise of another long and bloody war, culminating in another gunshot, another boy in his arms, bleeding and forever crippled-

He couldn't do that again.

"I will acknowledge it." He ignored Francis' startled gasp. There would be no battle, however the anger still had not left Canada's eyes.


	3. England: 1940

**December, 1940**

London was burning.

In some moments, England could draw breath, and think about what was happening, and attempt to implement solutions. Others, he was gasping for breath, as new burns started eating at his very flesh. On those nights, he prayed for an end, for help- though he truthfully did not expect aid from anyone. His allies were busy fighting their own battles, the countries who had declared neutrality were carefully avoiding all contact...

Then came the miracle.

Despite the past, Canada had stepped in to help.

Matthew's eyes had lost some of the coldness and anger that had been very much evident the last time Arthur had seen him, and as he personally came in with his pilots to survey the damage, his greeting was almost friendly.

"Arthur." said Matthew, "Holding up then?"

"Some nights better than others," Arthur replied. "How is-"

"Where would you like your munitions and medical supplies stored?" Matthew asked abruptly, "I've got to get my squadron billeted, and help prepare defenses."

"The what?" Arthur blinked unintelligently. He'd been radioed about the military actions, the aid that was being sent- but munitions and medicine... Well, he supposed that Canada would help supply their own.

Matthew gave a shrug, gesturing to a cargo plane taxiing to a halt on the besieged runway.

England gaped at the familiar red, white and blue flag on the nose of the craft, temporarily speechless. He knew the markings, but he'd never expected to see them here. On his own land.

"America is still neutral." Canada said shortly, "You can pay the idiot later."

Matthew marched away before Arthur could ask him anything more.

But that had been this morning. This evening was proving to be quieter than usual. Half- seven, and no sirens. Those would come later. Instead of hunkering down in a shelter to let his wounds heal and get some rest, Arthur went out to spend time among his people. He would not let that bastard run him down, and keep him cowed. He was England, damnit. He would not be trampled so easily.

Next thing he knew, it was half- nine, and the people in his company were laughing. He could've been drunk on their high spirits alone, let alone the two pints he'd consumed. A group of pilots, most likely one of the group of Canadians were leading a drinking song as he slipped out of the pub to head back to his quarters.

Arthur had seen enough to know that he was not alone, and that made him just a little less morose than he'd been this morning.

Less than halfway there, the sirens screamed.

With his system fogged by alcohol and the remnants of the camaraderie of his people, Arthur pressed onwards, certain he would make shelter long before the bombs started hitting his city again. It was a mistake that he didn't realize until the first bombs caught him, shaking him to the core.

_So quickly. _He thought, falling to the pavement in front of the building. The pain was dulled by the booze, but it still would not allow him to take those final steps, to call out for aid...

If there were an explosion too close...

"Fucking /hell/." The faint sound of voices was coming closer- from outside? But everyone was supposed to be – "I told you to stay in the shelter, you fucking moron."

Accented. Familiar.

Another voice replied, presumably, but Arthur couldn't hear the voice over the sound of fire and explosions. His eyes closed as another stripe of pure fire rolled over him.

"Fine. Stick close, and as soon as we make sure he's in the shelter, we'll get back to the base. I've got to get my ass in the air. I don't have time to be- Shit."

Canada.

Matthew.

England tried to open his eyes, and failed.

"Shit. Shit-" Arthur tried to summon up the effort to tell his former charge to stop swearing.

Failed.

"I don't know how we're going to get him-"

A soft reply.

"I don't—" Matthew sighed, the soft reply apparently continuing. "Okay. You win. You carry him, but you're still shipping out in the morning. Allons-y."

Awkwardly, England felt himself lifted, held carefully.

Another hand groped past his back, to the arm of the man carrying him, as they moved forward.

"Steps." Matthew's voice again, "Six."

Somewhere between the first step and the last, Arthur lost consciousness, and fell back into a nightmare.

_The figure stood over him, blood-soaked and torn, a gaping wound where his eyes used to be. As he fell, Arthur reached out to catch him._

_ "You did this..." the whisper came to him, "You did this to me-"_

_ "I didn't mean for this to happen—" Arthur protested, "I didn't want this-"_

_ "I know." The voice said softly, the dream changing, "I understand."_

Halfway between waking and unconsciousness, he felt a hand touch his forehead, his cheek. So gentle.

"Rest now." someone told him.

And he did.

When Arthur awakened next, he was alone.


	4. England: 1941

December 7, 1941

With bombs no longer dropping on his heart, his London, Arthur had made more of a recovery than he could have dreamed on the nights when the fire ate at him. Thanks to Canada's propping up of his battered defenses, England and his people had been able to pull themselves together, and would live on for another day.

_Little victories_. Arthur told himself, temporarily back from the front, where his men were sometimes holding their own, sometimes giving ground. _Little victories, like knowing who is on your side._

Like Matthew.

For a change, the tall lanky pilot was cleaned up (A miracle in this broken city, in this broken time), and sitting across the table from Arthur, pint in hand, and a hint of his old shy smile starting to break through.

Despite his curiosity as to the identity of Matthew's drinking partner last year, England never asked him any questions about it. The moments when he thought of satisfying the itch, and find out why exactly the two of them had been out wandering the streets during an attack left as soon as Arthur caught a glimpse of Matthew's scowling face.

But he wasn't scowling now.

"Everything will be okay, Arthur." Matthew told him, faint blush of alcohol touching his face. He wondered for a moment, if this boy still looked like his brother. Matthew had grown- but had Alfred? The country had grown, he reasoned with himself, so the youth had most likely grown into a man. Guilt washed across him, as Matthew spoke of plans and rebuilding what had been destroyed. "Bastards will wish they'd never crossed the channel."

"Thank you," Arthur could only manage, focusing on the conversation. But he knew that they were losing more ground than they were gaining the past month. Francis had given up already- and Arthur couldn't quite forgive that.

Never a mention of Alfred to Matthew, lest those eyes harden, and the openness of the face close up. It was as close to peace as England could personally gain with Canada right now, and he didn't want to spoil it.

This was as close to forgiven as he would likely ever come.

So lost in those thoughts, in the pleasant moment of sitting with his former colony without bearing the brunt of a glare, Arthur missed the exact moment that the pub's radio had been turned up, and the music had died.

He didn't miss the blood draining from Matthew's face, however, leaving him nearly as white as his shirt. Nor the spark of absolute fear and horror that flashed through violet eyes, leaving the boy gasping for breath.

"Fuck." The boy breathed, "They didn't- they couldn't- he was NEGOTIATING- Fuck, fuck FUCK!"

Panic. Fear. Pain.

The chair that the other had been sitting in crashed to the ground in the eerie silence of bar patrons as Matthew ran out the door.

Leaving England with the echoes of the broadcast that had provoked his drinking partner to flee.

"... devastating attack on the American base at Pearl Harbor, details are ..."

Arthur didn't hear the rest, as he chased Matthew.

He didn't have far to run- as the echoes of Canada yelling came from the alley next to a bombed out building. And an echo of something soft hitting something hard. England frowned, and dove down the narrow street, afraid for a moment that Matthew had run into some idiot looking to steal ration cards.

He needn't have worried on that account, but the tall blond youth was punching the crumbing wall.

"Damnit. You idiot. I told you this would happen." There was something strained, raw and to a point of breaking in that voice. "I fucking told you not to-"

Words broke off into a sob as Arthur halted beside Matthew. Another fist struck the wall, brick cracking from the force- but in the faint light of the moon, he could see blood on the bare knuckles. This had to stop.

"Matthew." England grabbed the next hand before it could be launched at the wall. Struggled against the strength, "Please, Matthew. Hurting yourself is not going to help. If you need something to punch, hit me, and we'll get on with doing what needs to be done."

Silvery wet tracks showed clearly against the young man's cheeks, and both arms suddenly dropped, as though all of the energy had just been released.

"Iggy..." Matthew whispered through another little hiccuping sob. England tried not to wince at the nickname that Alfred had given him so long ago. "Arthur, I-"

And suddenly, somehow, the taller boy was clinging to him like a lifeline, face buried in his shoulder and crying. The only thing he could do was wrap his own arms around the broad shoulders, and muffle his own tears. He had never been good at comforting.

"We'll go to the base," His voice was a bit choked, and he struggled to control it. "So you can call- and get ready to fly to America. "

It took them both a few minutes to pull themselves together, but in the end, Matthew with his worried violet gaze was connected to his brother, nearly a half a world away.

Arthur gave him privacy, returning just as Matthew was replacing the receiver.

"Will you be leaving in the morning?" England asked carefully.

"No." Matthew said slowly, giving one of those rare half-shy smiles that Arthur hadn't seen for years. "He said he'd kick my ass if I left before the job was done. He'll be fine. He's... tougher than that."

Arthur nodded, a faint smile of his own.

"I have to go talk to Eagle Squadron though. Let them know."

"Oh?" England frowned, puzzled. All the Canadian fliers had squadron nicknames. Bear. Eagle. Hawk. Why would that one-

"Because there will be a declaration of war tomorrow. And most of Eagle are American."

His mouth must have dropped open, because Matthew laughed, (When was the last time that had happened?) patted him on the shoulder, and walked out.

The little 'Thank you," dropped in his ear didn't register for a good twenty minutes.


	5. England: 1944

February, 1944

Matthew hadn't been exaggerating.

Eagle company had sprouted those crazy little red-white-and-blue marks on their jumpsuits where the Canadian flags had been only hours before. Fresh young faces, all, had stood at attention on the field while it was announced that America was officially siding with the Allies.

England recognized a few of the faces as regular patrons at the pub he had been frequenting for a year or more. One in particular, as the most likely to burst into song when he'd had a few drops of alcohol in him. (Canada had been often in his company, when not on a mission, or with his own squadron.)

He wasn't the pilot from the Blitz, however- to start with, he was shorter than England.

Their chatter had mostly subdued, and his own RAF pilots acknowledged them as 'damned good fighters' who took risks that nearly always paid off- and yet were not as prone to showiness as their Canadian counterparts. They were a somber bunch, at times, who opted to remain in the background- even after their true allegiance was revealed.

("Best fucking radar and sonar equipment in the world-" Matthew had offered once as they sat in the same pub after the fresh troops arrived. "I would have had to be an idiot not to use what was offered.")

Neither mentioned the alley.

But if one of them mentioned Alfred's name the anger no longer clouded Canada's face as it once had. Arthur didn't want to see it return, so he refrained from asking questions.

England was also surprised one morning, to turn from drawing his usual chalk figures and diagrams, and find a heavily bandaged Francis leaning in the doorway to the Allied meeting room.

"Angleterre," was his greeting, as though he had never been absent.

"You look a sight, Frog." returned England, "I thought you'd given up."

"A mere moment of weakness." The easy smile spread across Francis' face, "Besides, if America can fight, despite the handicaps he's been given, I would look a true fool not to make any effort."

"And we know you don't need any help there." Arthur sniped automatically. "Perhaps I shouldn't have confided in you. "

But he had, one drunken rainy night in the trenches during the last war, he had broken down and told Francis about that last battle, about the rain, the blood-

"Has the America been to any of the Allied forces meetings? If he-"

"No."

"Has Matthieu told you nothing about America?"

"No, and I... haven't asked." England scowled, turning back to the board and redrawing a few lines that might have been perfect already. "He's not as angry as he was then, but I don't want to risk it."

"You're a coward." The insult was delivered in a mild tone, as France took a seat. "You're afraid to find out for certain."

"In the years that you have been alive, Francis, have you ever heard of a country healing from an injury like ..that?"

"Surely you've seen such things in your days as a delinquent, Arthur." France leaned back in his chair. "Didn't you subjugate nations, conquer countries and rule the high seas with mayhem?"

"I have not, which is why I was asking you, idiot. In time of revolution, we're more succeptable to injury. I've destroyed nations, and seen them destroyed- " England paused for emphasis, refusing to rise to whatever bait that the word 'delinquent' had been in the past, "Never have I seen one of us survive a crippling blow like the one- I blinded him, for pity's sake."

"Not you personally, cher Angleterre." France reminded him, "He is a nation, however, and his wounds would have healed long ago. So, he's fine, just -"

"The last blow was struck in that nebulous time period between my surrender, and his acceptance. He was a nation as I laid him down. And even if- " England carefully replaced the chalk on the edge of the blackboard. "Just remember... how many scars do you carry from your battles that will never vanish?"

"I see." the serious expression was completely out of character for France. "However, he has survived whatever has been thrown at him with Matthieu's support, and his people are from what I gather, very competent."

"Competent." England sighed, and slouched into a chair. He should get some tea before the meeting, but he couldn't be arsed. "I've been living with rumors. My representatives have dealt with American officials- however none have seen anyone matching his description at functions where it would make sense for one of us to be present."

"Nor have mine." France winced as he shrugged, "Nor did I, when I visited to complete a land deal with him."

"When was that?"

"Years ago. The point is, Matthieu has been the only one of us to see him in the past hundred and fifty years. If you want to know how he is, and if he is still angry, you know who you have to talk with- and ce n'est pas moi."

Voices in the corridor gave England enough time to pull himself together. Not that he would admit to having been that close to weeping in frustration. He straightened up in time to see Matthew bounce into the room, a bright smile upon his face as he saw Francis sitting across from Arthur.

"Bienvenue!" he almost glowed, letting forth a stream of rapid French to France. Too fast for Arthur to follow. Francis responded in kind, and the pair seemed to ignore him.

He could hear the voices in the corridor getting closer, and as the large and familiar shape of Russia paused outside the door, he could see that Ivan was deep in conversation with someone who lingered out of sight.

But they were both speaking Russian, and Arthur could only wince in frustration. It might just be one of the Baltic states, but not understanding a word going on around him was annoying.

The laugh that preceded Ivan's entry stopped England cold.

Alfred.

For a moment, he considered jumping up and running, however his legs betrayed him by not moving.

America.

Here.

At a glance, he could tell Francis either didn't recognize the laugh, or was too embroiled in his conversation with Matthew. Was Alfred going to come in for the meeting? A shorter figure followed close behind Russia. Was it-

"Canada," Ivan was saying, "I would like to reassure you that I am not planning on invading you any time in the near future. Siberia is cold enough- and your brother is Злющий. How do you say- full of fire?"

"That he is." Matthew paused to smile at Ivan. "You should take him seriously."

The figure behind Russia proved to be Yao- which Arthur should have known by virtue of his height, dark hair, and the very fact that China was supposed to be there.

"All right then, shall we begin?" Matthew stepped to the front, making it obvious to England that America would once again, not be attending.

England let himself be distracted, watching the open doorway, almost expecting the slender blond figure to step in at any moment with the biggest smile on his face, apologizing for being late because he overslept, or some nonsense. Arthur's stomach tied itself in a knot. In his imagination, Alfred looked exactly the same- a sixteen year old body, a few inches taller than England- and a bright blue gaze looking down at him with all the joy- except...

"... how does that sound to you?"

"It sounds unbelievable." Francis was saying. Arthur had missed something important, most likely. "And incredibly generous, it would hearten my people beyond what I could ever expect- Matthieu-"

"It was America's idea." Matthew said gruffly, "He figured that your people needed some morale right about now- and there are French people outside of France who are already coming together to put this into action. We're hoping that it we can get there by this fall."

America's idea? England knew that some of the plans that Matthew had been presenting had been partially someone else's idea, as he usually began 'we think', but he'd assumed that it was his own generals, and perhaps America's generals-

"Unless someone has an objection, your own people will be the ones to liberate Paris" A faint smile, as Canada refused to meet England's questioning gaze. "Now, onto the next item-"

Those questions and queries would have to wait- there was still a war on, and that had to come before personal concerns.

Still, Arthur found himself glancing towards the door more frequently, not certain if he was hoping to see America enter, or afraid that he would.


	6. England: May 8, 1945

May 8, 1945

_War is hell_.

Arthur wasn't entirely certain just who had made that statement, or when at the moment, however he could testify that it was true in many ways. He couldn't force the images from his memories of the things that had been happening to his neighbors _by_ his neighbors.

Buchenwald and Belsen alone would always make him nauseous and angry, and to the point of wanting to grab Ludwig by the collar and screaming 'WHAT THE BLOODY HELL WERE YOU THINKING?' in his face.

But as with his own country, he didn't know absolutely everything that went on in it. If Arthur were privy to every single conversation that went on in his own boarders, he would be a raving lunatic. Germany was responsible, ultimately, and the consequences of everything that had set the whole of Europe into a bloodbath would begin, but-

Right now it was all over.

At least for this continent. Japan was still refusing to surrender.

Things had gotten so hectic after the meeting last February, that England had been launched into plans and preparation and transport off to battles- at least that's what he told himself. He wasn't afraid of meeting America. There just was no time to listen for a familiar laugh, no time to look for the spot of sunshine-coloured hair in the hallways.

There were signs of passage, however.

On occasion, he would need to stop at hospital, to find one of his men, or one of his leaders who had been wounded, or was visiting comrades that were trapped within battered brick walls. The American soldiers who were there were usually in good spirits- as were the few children who had been unable to escape London. The nurses and orderlies told England of a young blond man- American- who would come in to visit them all, always cheerful, and happy, despite the fact that he seemed to be blind himself— always had an escort, and a large white dog to guide him. He soothed the youngest patients, and encouraged those who needed it.

The children loved that dog, who was almost big and fluffy enough to be a giant teddy bear, almost as much as 'big brother'.

The word 'blind' alone put another knot in England's stomach. There really was no question in his mind as to who would be making the rounds like that in a ward full of American pilots.

He had done it himself, often enough.

Arthur avoided the American wards, and got Francis' scorn once more- however it hadn't lasted long in the furious days of fighting that led up to this perfect moment, where a new peace was forged on the ashes of Germany's surrender.

Celebrations were well underway, as he stood in the middle of the square near the hospital's drive. People- his people- joyous at the ceasing of hostilities, of the end of war, of families to be reunited, of no more young men being sent off to die in a foreign land. People. His people were happy.

There were other allied troops within the mix, but Arthur could only feel his own, and they were intoxicating.

His smile didn't falter, even as Francis came to him for a celebratory embrace- however, Arthur drew the line at groping- which surprisingly didn't seem to bother the Frenchman one bit.

A glimpse of a familiar face in the crowd made him pause- Matthew had returned to London, apparently, however before Arthur could attempt to call to him, he saw the young man's face light up, and Canada pushed his way through the crowd towards the archway of the hospital, yelling something.

And then England noticed the quiet figure in the shadow of the arch- and whatever he had been going to call Canada with died in his throat.

A slender young man, with blond hair, and dark glasses that overshadowed a far too pale face- grinning that familiar silly grin. Not much older than he'd been the last time that Arthur had seen him. As Matthew approached, the ridiculous grin grew wider.

There was a ferocious hug, and Matthew was spun around by the shorter boy, and they were animatedly yelling at each other, while a white animal- good lord, was that a bear?- sat quietly watching them.

Arthur felt something catch in his throat.

Alfred.

He'd stopped shooting up like a proverbial weed, England noted, trying to keep a detached view no matter how it wasn't working. Still strength enough to nearly push Canada over, but...he was nearly the same as he had been back then.

This was the first time Arthur had seen America- Alfred- in over a hundred and fifty years, and even with the celebrations going on around him, he had to fight to keep the tears from coming.

"Angleterre?" Francis had noticed his sudden freeze, and laid another casual arm across his shoulder, rubbing his arm. "What is-"

England didn't trust his voice not to shake, his arm not to tremble, so he said nothing, just drinking in the way the sunlight was still in the boy's smile despite the wars on two fronts.

"Ah. I see." France had followed the direction of his stare, "He still has that air of innocence, does he not? Even through battles lost and battles won, he will smile as though it were nothing."

"Yes." Arthur managed to say, the drunken happy feeling now only a mild buzz in the back of his mind. The pair were embracing again, and then linking arms. The white bear followed them, as they disappeared into the crowd.

"And yet, you still have not found the courage to face him." Arthur flinched.

"Is it cowardice?" he wondered, "Or is it that he might not wish to see-" the word got caught. Words had been doing that a lot these days.

"You do not know his mind, mon cher." Words were breathed into his ear. "You do not know his heart. Look at his people, here to help us in our hour of need. Look at him, here with his people- he did not have to come. Perhaps he was hoping to find you."

The fragile hope that Francis was offering was almost more than he could handle.

England- no- _Arthur_, closed his eyes, trying to keep a grasp on the golden threads of fancy.


	7. England: August 17, 1945

August 17, 1945

By the time Arthur had screwed up his courage to go find the former colony, it was too late. Standing on the doorstep of the house that he had been sent to by one of Canada's people, he was told "Both of those nice young men had to leave- they were needed elsewhere, they said. Something about a project. They looked rather unhappy about it, especially the younger one."

And the fragile hope was neatly crushed under the weight of understanding. England had dithered like an idiot, avoiding the meeting, and America hadn't been able to just sit around waiting for him to come to his senses.

And the war hadn't truly ended when Germany had surrendered. Not when Japan's depleted fleets were flailing and striking- each and every man fighting to their last breath for home and crown.

But that had been three months ago, and the rumors about the events surrounding Japan's surrender were still murky.

Arthur swiftly strode the crowded corridors of another crumbling hospital- this one in Tokyo- in answer to a request from the injured nation. Japan- Kiku- wanted to speak with him before his Emperor and his generals signed the damned surrender documents.

Enemy or no, Arthur would be damned himself, before he'd let Kiku convince him of something to add to the document, or persuade another nation to give quarter to a reckless gamble- no matter what soft words were used. The other nation had _hurt_ too many of his people- of his allies' people.

Standing in the doorway to the hospital room, he saw Kiku first- the old nation's youthful form bandaged, and propped up in a bed looking pensive as he toyed with a small object. After a moment, the worn red, blue and white paint struck a familiar chord. A wooden soldier- one that he'd made for Alfred so long ago, but what was it doing here, and why- oh why did Japan, of all nations have it?

Japan's gaze met his, and before he could ask- no, **demand** an answer, the man put fingers to lips in a gesture of 'please be quiet' while gesturing him to come closer. England almost ignored the movements, but then realized several things simultaneously.

First, this wasn't a private room, as he had expected of one with a nation's status, even a defeated one.

Second, that the other bed in this suddenly too small room was occupied.

It was the surprise of seeing messy golden-blond hair against a white pillow that made him pause, and the shock of realization as to who was actually _in_ that other bed that froze him in his tracks, causing the instinct to flee to clash with the instinct to run forward. His heart raced.

Arthur wasn't ready for this.

One arm carelessly flung over the head, the other flung outward as though to offer an embrace to the entire world. The old familiar sprawl that spoke of a deep, exhausted sleep. The hints of old scars poked out from where pajamas gaped, and newer ones along the hand that rose and fell with the rhythm of sleeping breath.

And the face... not as peaceful as those times of happy memory, yet somehow managing to keep the youthful (Oh God, so young) innocence despite the ancient scaring marking the now unshielded eyes. It wasn't as pronounced as England had feared, however it was terrible all the same, how the fingers of old wounds had left their mark along the left temple, across the bridge of the boy's nose, and lightly touched the other eye in some obscene kiss. His boy, but- not his any longer.

And he hadn't realized- known that America was hurt in the last battle.

"Ingurando-san," a voice whispered, and England was forced to rub his stinging eyes with the back of his sleeve before he could respond to the call that he knew was not the first. "Please, come sit with me."

In the awkward silence that followed, Arthur tried, and failed, to keep his gaze from landing on the sleeping figure.

"Why... is he here?" Finally, the silence was broken with a harsh whisper, Arthur couldn't keep the questions from being asked. "In this room-"

"He insisted upon it." the answer sounded almost amused "And I cannot find it in myself to refuse him."

"He always did have a persuasive way about him. When he was small, he would get his brother to go along with him, and they'd both finish up either in trouble, dirty and exhausted, or both." Arthur smiled faintly, remembering. "But how did he get hurt? Matthew wouldn't have let him get anywhere near the combat himself."

"Perhaps he convinced his brother that it was absolutely necessary," Japan said softly, drawing Arthur's attention away from the sleeper with a gesture. The toy soldier lay in his hands, as he held it up. "And perhaps it was necessary. He came to speak with me almost two weeks ago. I do not know how he and his brother found me through my own defenses, but they came, and perhaps..."

"Perhaps?" England repeated, wondering why sensible, protective Canada would have brought America through danger to meet with more danger. "He was always so reckless-"

"However, he did convince me to surrender. America told me of a weapon so powerful that entire cities would vanish- But he did not tell you of this."

"No... " Arthur frowned. "But it exists?"

"I have seen its scar. We are connected to the land and its people. When the brothers completed their weapon, Alfred insisted it be tested within his boundaries. He told me that when the bomb was triggered, it burned- but not just that. They may have chosen the coldest most abandoned place within America's boarders, but once the destruction began, there was a great emptiness that swelled up from the epicenter, and consumed everything in its path. Matthew told me of the great flash, and the trees vanishing, and the shadows of animals that had gotten caught up in the blast..."

Arthur was chilled by the description, and Kiku seemed to sense it, because he stopped.

"He found me, and told me this, and more. He begged meme not to make him use this against me and my people. He showed me the scar, and told me that if I did not surrender, his people would use this, and people would die. I could die.

"I was … unsettled. Why would one Western nation risk himself in such a way, let alone two, if there were no truth behind their words. My people were already weary of war, so I surrendered. There would be time later to atone for cowardice. To regain honor with blood, as my people were absorbed by another country. It is the right of the victor to dispose of the defeated.

"And then he presented this to me" Kiku indicated the wooden soldier in his hands. "With both hands, and a soft smile. 'Japan-san,' he said, 'Please accept my gift. Although it looks old, it is still very precious to me. I would like you to take it, and remember that the only gift that I wish from you is your life. Do not leave. We will help you rebuild, if you will allow it, just no more fighting. I want to be friends.'

"He knew our custom, and the obligation that accepting his gift gave me."

"And?" Arthur asked, trying not to show a reaction to the revelation that the toy soldier had meant anything to Alfred.

"I find that my heart desires peace as well. I will not follow the sunset path, nor will I continue to fight needlessly." Kiku smiled.

"But how did he-"

"He tripped as we were leaving the temple that they found me in- missed the step, and into the garden. Canada-san- Matthew, was yelling at him for not paying attention to directions. 'How could you be able to carry Arthur down six steps and through a crowded shelter with the bombs going off everywhere,' he said, 'and not be able to go down one step on your own during a time of peace.' "

England felt his eyes go very wide, as what Japan told him sunk into his brain.

Alfred had... But... He'd been so close-

"Igrisu-san?"

"And why did you ask to speak with me?" Arthur nearly stammered, trying to regain bearings that had been shaken.

"Because, Igrisu-san, Alfred is lonely. He has a neighbor to his south who hates him, and has hurt him many times, and he has an overprotective brother in Matthew. He is afraid of being seen, and not being seen at the same time. And he misses you."

"He broke away from me a long time ago." England did not dare let that tiny golden thread live. "I haven't seen him for a hundred and sixty-two years. He hates me for what I- I haven't moved in the past millennium, if he wanted to see me-"

Japan waited patiently for Arthur to finish verbally floundering. Making excuses.

"Igrisu-san, the past is the past, unchanging in time and memory. We can only attempt to move forward from this moment on." Japan tilted his head, holding up the paint-worn wooden soldier once again. "You recognized this the moment you saw it, did you not? A precious thing that I suspect you share a history with. If he despised you, he would hardly keep this."

Arthur remained silent, uncertain. The taunting hope that had been snatched away had returned- but Alfred was _here_. A glance at the young man showed that the conversation had been quiet enough not to disturb him.

And England wanted nothing more than to go brush the errant bangs out of the sleeping face.

"This is why I requested your presence. Alfred-san is far too stubborn to ask for you, and I suspect that you are the same. Go to him, England."

England took a deep breath, and followed the command.

Alfred's hair was still baby soft to the touch

Arthur wasn't certain if he didn't want this stranger to awaken because of his own reluctance, or because the boy looked entirely too tired- worn out- one might say in a way that no seventeen year old would or should ever look.

Japan was studiously not paying attention from his side of the room, as England brushed the disheveled and unruly bits of sunshine away from America's face with his fingers.

"You just grew up too fast," he told the sleeping face. "And I was too selfish to know when to let go."

"Mmn," came a drowsy mutter, as eyes fluttered open to reveal sky blue marred with cloudy white. Unfocused, and soft despite the sharp lines of the scars around them. There was a maturity about the waking face that belied the youthful appearance. The nose wrinkled, and then for a bare moment, the expression froze.

"Arthur?" A faint and beautiful fraction of that brilliant smile crept over the face, "Why - Is that really-"

"I'm here, Alfred." England said, wondering at the little catch that the name had gained in his voice. Why were his eyes stinging? "I'm here."

The wondering smile widened. Hands reached towards him, touching his arms, then his face, smearing wetness on his cheeks, as Alfred brushed over his face with light fingertips.

"Don't cry. I like it best when you smile."

"I'm sorry-" England found himself suddenly pulled down into a clumsy but tight hug, wondering if he should remind America that they were both crying right now, but they weren't tears of sorrow and misery- but of joy and regret for the gulf of years that had been lost.

"I missed you, England." Alfred whispered against his neck, ""m sorry things had to happen like they did, but I … only regret not being able to have you there... and ..."

America fell silent, merely holding onto England like he had when he was small, and in need of comfort. And Arthur didn't want to break this embrace, end this moment when everything was remotely close to whole, close to being able to pretend that the years of separation hadn't occurred.

"I missed you too."


	8. England: 1946

July 4, 1946

Nearly a year later, and England still couldn't quite get used to being this close to America.

He still hesitated to take the hands offered him, the sudden spontaneous embraces, and the smiles- dear God, the smiles. Not that Arthur was given any choice in the matter.

The meeting in Tokyo had been brief, and far more emotional than Arthur could have expected- especially once Canada had arrived with that bear of his, and demanded that England behave himself, and not even to think of touching his former colony again.

Alfred had immediately told him to shut it.

"I'm blind, Mattie, not stupid, and you know you can't put me in some sort of protective bubble for the rest of my life- I'd go nuts." Alfred's smile had been bright, "You know I would, mon frère. I'm not meant to be caged, even if it means that I might get hurt."

The conversation had turned civil after that, projects, and plans for the future. The past was not mentioned. Before England had to leave, there had been an invitation.

The usual symptom of insomnia plagued England, the scattered sleep that he did manage to catch was full of shattered fragments of memory- nightmares, one might call them, leaving him nauseous (and consequently irritable). This was the day that America had chosen (not Alfred, his people) to celebrate his birth, his independence- but his memories were still full of a different time, that this particular day had started.

And then there was the invitation that he just couldn't say 'no' to.

"Igrisu-San," Kiku's voice came from his right, startling him out of the half-doze that he had fallen into while simply sitting in the warm sunlight of a window that he'd thought he'd never see again. "Arthur-san, did you sleep last night?"

"Hullo, Kiku. Not much, I'm afraid." Arthur formed a smile, attempting to banish the dark circles and pallor that he knew had to be showing. Japan was healing- his people rebuilding with Alfred's help- actually, with everyone's help. They were all supporting each other now. The next meeting of the allies had included America, to the shock of the others.

Matthew had given them looks that absolutely _dared_ them to object to his brother's presence.

At the silence, Alfred had only laughed, and given Matthew a surprisingly accurately aimed bop on the head with the palm of his hand. "Stop trying to scare 'em, Mattie."

"I—I-" Matthew had actually stuttered, face turning bright pink.

"What good is it going to do for me to be here, if you're going to do that?" The others had merely sat in stunned silence, watching the interaction. "I have an idea, and if everyone's going to be too afraid of pointing out flaws, then I might as well have stayed at home."

England had listened to the presentation, given objections, as had others. America either found a way around them, or asked for ways for improving it.

Somewhere in the past hundred and sixty years, Alfred had learned to listen.

"Arthur-san," Kiku's voice again, "Are you all right? Perhaps you should go back to bed."

Arthur shook his head, trying to get rid of the fog that the lack of sleep had left him with, "I promised that I would be here, and so I shall."

"I see," Japan said simply, sitting at England's invitation. "May I ask, what do you think of this land thus far?"

"It's not entirely what I expected." And it hadn't been. The land itself was still beautiful, wild- much like the people. However, they were poorer than one would expect a fresh new nation such as this one to have, and there wasn't as much glitter and glamor as England had expected. The cities were lovely, but not quite as flashy as what Arthur would have expected from the Alfred he had known before their war- before the light had been stolen from him. In some ways, it felt smaller than it should be. "It's quite … nice, actually."

"The gardens are lovely." Kiku mentioned with a gaze out the window towards that mentioned garden. "The colors are quite well placed, one would not have expected such a thing."

Because the garden's owner was blind, the unspoken words hung between them.

"It's more than the colours, Kiku, there is more to a flower than pretty colours." England had come to the realization himself last night, when he had been unable to sleep. The gardens with their midnight glory had called to him. The soft touch of a petal, the scent of a rose, and jasmine, and the unmistakable odor of sweetpea...

"Yes, I know." Japan was smiling when Arthur turned to look at him, "Beauty can be found in more ways than with the eyes alone. It takes an appreciation and a gentle soul to find it."

Arthur chuckled, feeling some of the tension and nausea slipping away. "I think he's forgiven me, but his brother..."

"This one must disagree with that assessment." Japan inclined his head, "I believe there is something else that is trapping our young Canada-san within that shield of anger."

Voices from the corridor behind the little library room in the Virginia home interrupted Arthur before he could ask exactly what the hell that was supposed to mean.

"... damn it, Al." Matthew seemed to be trying to keep his voice hushed, "That asshole … on your birthday, no less?"

England winced, certain of the identity of the named target of Matthew's renewed wrath.

"Mattie, butt the hell out." Alfred's voice was firmer, and had the house not been otherwise silent, Arthur would have probably missed it- "My people will take care of it. It's not like this is the first time he's tried it. I'm not that weak anymore."

Or maybe not. Kiku merely gave him a mild look.

"For crying out loud, Al, you might not be as weak as you were, but you're-"

"Hush." The other boy hissed, "Please, Mattie, I invited people here for the weekend, and I'm not about to let them start worrying about stupid shit like this. Now help me get cleaned up before they see-"

"Do you know what that was about?" Arthur looked at Kiku, who gave a slight nod.

"I believe that I mentioned he had a neighbor who hated him." Kiku said in the same level tone, "This will make the third time this year that America has tried to offer peace to Mexico, and the third time this year that Mexico has laughed in his face, and taken another boarder city."

Arthur stood abruptly, a level of tiredness slipping away as adrenaline took over.

"You mean he's been attacked. And still plans to entertain us as though nothing had happened-"

"He is strong, Igrisu, and stubborn. You of all people should know that."

And he should, Arthur thought, remembering how determined the boy had gotten- then found himself in the hallway, following the arguing pair.

The metallic smell of burned copper made him pause, as he noticed a few spatters of red upon the hardwood floors. They led to Alfred's room.

The sound of running water came from the little bathroom, however when Arthur stepped inside (without knocking, terribly rude, however if he knocked they would hide...) he found Matthew sitting on the edge of the bed, alone.

The young man's face was buried in his hands, shoulders slumped as though exhausted.

England could swear he saw them shake, as though Matthew was about to start crying. But that couldn't be- Canada had stopped crying years ago, after America had been weakened, and Canada was forced to take center stage. He was strong, and assertive-

And England couldn't help but remember a London alley, when the boy had clung to him like a small child, sobbing his eyes out.

"Matthew?"

The shoulders froze, as Matthew quickly seemed to wipe his eyes, and pretended to be just adjusting his glasses.

"Matthew, are you all right?" Alfred was important, but so was Canada. Canada who had been strong for so long-

"Peachy." The guarded response came, sulky mask firmly back on his face. "Don't you knock?"

"I don't when I know someone is trying to hide things from me." Kiku had been absolutely correct. There was something else to Matthew's anger that the boy was desperately trying to hang onto. "Are you still angry with me?"

"... No." the response was troubled, "I- I'm angry with Mexico right now."

"What brought on these attacks?"

"Asshole's trying to get the rest of Texas back. Says the treaty shouldn't have used the Colorado River, when they meant the Trinity. So now they've taken Dallas again, and Al's fucking bleeding, and just taking it- his people are doing the best they can, but the big war's just over, and..."

"He won't let you help. I heard that part."

"Mexico's been pushing him back forever- subtle at first, but. Al couldn't win, because..."

"Because he couldn't see what they were doing." supplied Arthur, when the thought trailed off. Wincing. _It's my fault._

"It's my fault." The echo of his thought startled England for a moment, until he realized that Matthew was speaking again, "If I hadn't told him 'No', if I hadn't refused to help him- maybe there would've been something I could've done. I could've _been there_. If that soldier hadn't shot- if I could've done something- anything-"

"Matthew..." The violet eyes fixed upon him once more, and for the first time, Arthur could see the pain and _guilt_ within. "It wasn't your fault. There was nothing you could have done."

"You don't know that."

"I was _there_ Matthew." Arthur couldn't keep the crack from his voice. "I couldn't hurt him- but I also couldn't prevent him from being hurt."

"I- could have done something," The voice that had been so strong for so long was now at the old whisper, "Something besides hold his hand while he was so sick from that wound. He almost died, Arthur. A nation for a week, and almost..."

"Matthew... you were there with him, propped him up when he needed you the most. It wasn't your fault."

"That's what I've been telling him for years," Alfred's voice came from the connecting door, the boy standing there quietly in a plain robe, holding onto the frame. Blind eyes rested vaguely on his brother. "If he'd come with me, he might have been hurt or killed. He knew his limitations better than I knew my own."

"Alfred, I am sorry." Arthur got over his start first. "I don't know why they fired-"

"We never will know," Alfred's smile was easy, "That soldier is gone now. Probably didn't really know himself. I'm alive, which is the important part. With Adams and Washington prodding me... I couldn't stay down for long. And I couldn't stay angry. You were horrified. I can remember that part clearly. I wanted your respect as an equal, to be your friend, not your child- You could have hated me, but, even after everything I said, everything I did, you still cared about me. It took Mattie a while to understand."

"I understand, dumbass." Matthew grumbled, and then moved swiftly to Alfred's side, as the color drained from his brother's face. "It doesn't help sometimes. You really need to stop fucking around, and do something about Mexico, you know."

"I know." Alfred confirmed, as Matthew led him to the bed, allowed himself to be seated upon it. "That's next."

The robe was pulled down, so that Matthew could view his brother's lower back, carefully locating the bandages that had been hidden in the folds of the duvet.

From what Arthur could see, it was a long, deep gash, still oozing blood.

He stepped forward.

"Would you allow me to help? I have had some experience with things such as this..."

A faint smile crossed the younger face as he slowly inclined his head.

The elder glanced up towards England the war in the violet eyes finally coming to an end, and a cautiously welcoming gaze settled upon him.

"You … still do needlework, right?"


	9. England: 1949

April, 1949

Despite the war tearing at his southern regions, America had been making a point of inviting his allies to special occasions- 'points of light in his weary gray existence' he had said at one point, 'without which, I wouldn't have anything to look forward to.'

(England refused to correct his grammar on that occasion, and could not find it in himself to blame the younger nation for not wanting to be alone. Perhaps it was guilt, or indulgence, but all the same.)

There were ugly rumors floating around the nations about just what was behind Mexico's continued aggression- rumors that involved a former friend, and the madness that had overtaken the largest country on Earth.

Washington DC was beautiful, however.

Kiku's old gift of cherry trees were in full blossom. Japan had managed to make more of an attempt to be America's ally during those years before war had torn the world apart, and now that first gift was softly snowing petals down on the small group that walked among them.

Kiku and Matthew chatting animatedly about technology in the forefront, followed by Francis, who had one arm linked in Alfred's.. As Arthur watched, the elder nation leaned over to murmur something in tones far too softly for him to hear from his position at the back of the group.

France was very... touchy. His free hand was patting the shoulder, ruffling golden hair, and generally free with contact. Not that America was doing much more than occasionally blushing at the whispers.

England watched the light flush staining the far too pale skin, trying to ignore the hint of something that couldn't possibly be jealousy.

Despite the ferocious hugs that Alfred greeted him with every time they met, Arthur could not quite bring himself to be so free with the young man he'd sentenced to a life of darkness. Even if the young man had forgiven him, he could not quite forgive himself.

England contented himself with being allowed within the circle of allies that were always invited to share whatever joys that America had to offer.

An arm suddenly slung over his shoulders brought him out of his musings, the contact automatically jerking himself up straight and flailing.

A low whisper buzzed against his ear- which made him scowl, and consciously try to remove that arm.

Francis.

"Mon cher, Angleterre, why are you lagging behind so?" Alert, he let his gaze search ahead- surely Francis would not have left Alfred alone to harass him- but no, there was America, between Japan and Canada, linking arms with both, as they laughed about something. Waiting beneath the largest of the trees.

"I'm not lagging behind," England denied, forcefully, trying to shrug the arm off again, and failing. "You're walking too bloody fast."

"We are not covering ground that swiftly," Francis' tone was chiding. "It is as though you are reluctant to come too close to them."

"I'm here, aren't I?"

"And isolating yourself in a world of your own thoughts, rather than enjoying the company of your dear host, and his delightful brother. Mattheiu looks much happier these days."

"I can enjoy his company without _molesting_ him, thank you very much." England scowled at France, but caught an unamused frown on the taller man's face. "What?"

"Angleterre," France said quietly, "Arthur. Our little America is blind-"

"Like I could forget that, Frog."

"Hush, Arthur." Francis was still frowning, "He cannot see you, and you refuse to touch him except for the briefest of greetings. To him, it is difficult to know that you are really present. You have been keeping him at arm's length since Tokyo."

"Just because I act as a gentleman, and not a pervert-"

"Is it gentlemanly to hurt one who would be your friend?" Before Arthur could respond, Francis went on, "He enjoys your company, for dieu only knows what reason- the conversations I have seen you hold could just as easily be telephone calls from the safety of your own little house. When you deferred to me to be his walking companion today, I could see the disappointment in his face. He hides it well enough, but I fear those brief embraces are not going to be enough to sustain him."

"He's- he's done well so far," England offered, "I don't see-"

"Close your eyes." The demand cut him off, "Close them."

Reluctantly, England obeyed, hoping whatever foolishness France was perpetrating would not end up in a random groping.

The arm slid off his shoulders silently, leaving them light, and cold.

"All right then," Arthur frowned at the silence. "What now?"

"Tell me, Angleterre," France's voice came from his other side now. "Does the sound of my voice warm you? Make you feel as though you are not completely alone on this lovely spring day? Am I frowning, or angry- or just happy to be next to you?"

"This is pointless, Frog." A hand gently brushed his arm, "Don't-"

"You were close before he grew up and decided to take wing." Francis's hand remained on his arm, a point of warmth in the red-haze of the day from behind closed eyes. "Do you not miss that, at least?"

"I shouldn't—"

"You see how he interacts with his brother, with his friends— he has become very tactile- and yet you manage to avoid all but absolutely necessary physical contact. Arthur, mon cher. You may not believe you deserve his affection, however you need to ask yourself, does he deserve such coldness from you?"

The answer was obvious. England didn't even have to think about it. Of course not. And his own reluctance- his hesitation might be something that could weaken his ally. Hurt his _friend_- something that he'd never thought was a possibility- they had a past, yes, but if he could get over America's rebellion- get over the fact that his own people had left a mark on the promising young nation-

Arthur opened his eyes to the brilliant daylight, and an anxious face trained in his direction.

Matthew and Kiku were still chattering, however Alfred had unlinked himself from between them. He had taken a few steps back the way they'd come, and stood alone. If Arthur hadn't known that he was blind, he would've said that the young man was watching for him, just as he had when he was a colony awaiting England's arrival.

Francis' hand slipped off of his arm, as Arthur jogged towards Alfred.

"Your strides were a bit too long." Arthur said, steeling himself, as he looked up into Alfred's wondering face. Obviously running wasn't exactly going to be a stealthy activity.

The look hopeful joy on the blind man's face as Arthur took his arm turned into a genuine smile, the likes of which he really hadn't seen from Alfred since he'd reunited with him in Tokyo.

Damned Frog- right again.

At least he wasn't gloating about it. Francis was linking arms with Matthew and Kiku, almost skipping towards the little gazebo at the end of their planned walk. England and America had made no move to join them- not just yet.

"Arthur?" His name was quietly spoken, "I-I'm glad you're here."

The boy's hand slipped into his in the old familiar way, still neatly fitting with his own despite the size difference. The hand was trembling.

Damn Francis for being right.

Damn himself for not figuring this out sooner.

"Of course I'm here." Arthur grumbled, "I'm- I'm sorry I took so long -"

"Don't worry about it," There was a brief shadow crossing the smiling face, "I'm just happy you're here now. No matter what happens in the end, we won't have to regret not having been together without arguing. I was afraid it would be."

"Would be- a regret?" The words sunk in slowly. It sounded a bit like- "Alfred?"

"I have a feeling." America said slowly, as they started walking towards the others. "Intelligence coming in is saying something about finding an 'old friend' at closed door meetings in Tenochtitlán who wears a scarf, even though the temperature is well over a hundred degrees. Mexico's soldiers are better equipped than ever. I- I may lose this one, Arthur."

"Not if I have anything to say about it."

"No, Arthur- I don't want you hurt. You've got enough to deal with while you're rebuilding London." It was true, England knew, four years, and they had only gotten through the first stage. "Mattie is helping where he can, but Russia keeps looming from over in his section of the continent. Like he's waiting for something- probably for some sign of weakness.."

"You're my ally. I can't just-"

"Russia has rebuilt himself faster than we ever thought possible. And he's gone buddy-hunting, and come up with a half dozen of the folks that really don't like the fact that I exist. Whatever his government is telling him, it's driven him over the edge, and this kind of crazy likes to spread. I was hoping it wouldn't-"

"Imperialism can be addictive," Arthur said wryly, patting the hand within his own. "All that power- but he can be reasoned with, can't he? He's an old friend of yours."

"Something changed, England. Between meetings. I can hear it in his voice- there is something off. It's like he's keeping a secret that would upset the balance of power between the nations. It already felt a bit messed up before, but now- I'm afraid."

"What happened to the brave young boy I knew, who never gave up?"

"He's tired, Arthur," America tried to smile, but it came nowhere near the wild grins of the teenager getting ready to spread his wings and fly. And he did indeed look tired. For a moment England wondered just how badly that southern war was going for his former colony. "I'm not going to give up without a fight. I have plans-"

"You two took forever," Matthew's voice interrupted their quiet conversation, and Arthur realized they'd come to the tree. "Come on, it's too nice to spend the entire day talking about serious things. We can do that tomorrow- right now, it's time to have lunch, and enjoy the sunshine and blossoms.

Arthur glanced at Alfred, and found him nodding in agreement, a light smile on his face.

"Tomorrow then," England hesitated, and then rested his palm against America's face, thumb brushing his cheek. He just wanted to soothe away the faint lines of worry and pain around the mouth. Fuck Francis and whatever he'd choose to read into this gesture. "We will most certainly discuss this tomorrow."

Alfred only laughed, though he did lean into the hand for a moment before being led to the small picnic luncheon.

Francis was watching from behind Matthew, and although there was a faint smirk on his face, his eyes reflected the same emotions that Arthur was certain would be found in his own, if he looked into a mirror.

Time, which had dragged on for aeons, was now moving far too swiftly for England's tastes.


	10. England: 1950

**December 21, 1950**

Battles came and went. A tentative peace was made and held, as the holiday season approached, though America's borders had shrunk, leaving him with a third less land than he'd started with before Mexico's 'reclamation'.

Time continued to wear on.

He could no longer look at the boy that he had raised, England had discovered once the initial hesitation had been overcome, because that boy no longer existed. The child had vanished, and the teenager who had taken his place had died on a battlefield nearly two hundred years before. This young nation was still America, with many of the memories- both good and bad- the same ravenous appetite for both food and company, but at the same time, he was completely unknown.

It was almost like getting to know a familiar stranger.

The last thing Arthur had expected to see as he entered Alfred's parlor was to see the aforementioned nation calmly sitting in a wing chair, having an intense conversation about prolonging the lifespan of Winter Daphne … with a fairy.

"So, if I do what you told me, it'll live a few more years?"

"Yes, dear. I'm certain. Can't have you getting lost in the garden again," said Bluebell, with a sparkling smile, "Hello, England."

"Hello, Bluebell." England managed, getting over the shock, wondering if Alfred even knew who- or what he was talking to right now. "What are you doing here?"

"Visiting young America, of course. We have long chats from time to time. He's a very good listener, you know. It's worth the trip, just to see him smile- as you well know."

Alfred's pale face turned a faint pink.

"Well...I... just never expected-" England stammered, trying not to notice the blush and faint smile, and failing. "He knows that you- well- that you're..."

"She's a fairy." America gave England one of those (rare in these times) bright smiles. "I know."

"But I thought you didn't-"

"I could never see them before." Alfred explained simply, "I could always hear them though. Always thought they were ghosts, and they scared the stuffings out of me, so I mostly blocked them out. They weren't so scary after everyone was invisible- so I started listening more.

"Why did you tell me that you didn't believe in fairies, and that I was-"

"I was jealous." There was that blush again. "You were always so happy when you were talking to them, and I- well. I liked to see you smile, but I- um... liked to have your attention focused on me. When you were flustered, and trying to convince me that they existed, you were so..."

"Passionate?" suggested Bluebell with a tiny laugh.

"Y-yeah."Alfred's blush only deepened in the silvery bells of the fairy's laughter.

And to Arthur's surprise, his own face felt warm.

"You should tell him, little one." Bluebell hovered closely to the blind man, and stroked a hand along one flaming cheek. "He won't laugh at you, and it will do you good to let go of that particular secret. It will only wear you thin with regrets in the end."

"Secret?" Arthur parroted, "Alfred?"

"You didn't have to tell him that!" Alfred protested, "Bluebell-"

"I didn't tell him anything- that's for you to do." The winged creature laughed again, "I must be going, my flowers miss me when I am away too long—it was lovely seeing you today, England. Goodbye, dear America, we will speak again."

The fairy vanished before England could begin to give a proper answer, leaving him alone with America.

"Um." America said concisely. "She always leaves so fast."

"Yes," Arthur frowned, making his way to the settee that the young man occupied. "They tend to be a bit flighty like that at times."

An awkward silence lay upon the room like a cheap rug trying to cover a large gaping hole in the middle of the floor. 

"Alfred?"

"Arthur." Alfred said, the bright smile of earlier fading to one that almost seemed—well... shy.

"I assume that the secret Bluebell was speaking of isn't that you talk to them, as that is moot at this point." The blush returned, faintly colouring to the tips of Alfred's ears. "You do not have to tell me anything, if you do not wish to, however I must warn you that the fae do have a tendency to forget that things are secret."

"Oh..." In that simple syllable, Arthur heard an anxious horror. "You mean... she'll tell you anyway?"

"Not deliberately. She'll simply forget that she's not supposed to tell me whatever it is that you told her." Arthur reached over to pat Alfred's shoulder fondly. "Next time, perhaps you shouldn't confide something so personal as this secret seems to be in a fairy."

"I'll... remember that." Alfred said, very quietly, face still alight with that brilliant blush, almost seeming to lean into the hand on his shoulder. He went silent after that.

"It is curious, however, that she would encourage you to speak to me about it. Is it something that should concern me?" Arthur broke the silence, after studying the face that seemed to be trying to hide by turning towards the windows. "Alfred?"

"Y—maybe."

"Maybe?"

Alfred mumbled something far too low and quick for Arthur to catch.

"If you're not comfortable telling me, Alfred..." England sighed, watching the young man beside him squirm. It was probably something very personal that was bothering America, and England should keep his nose out of it, unless Alfred decided to bring it up. "We're friends. I don't like seeing you so unnerved. Bluebell shouldn't have hinted at anything to start with, and I shouldn't pursue it further. I will be here, if you should ever decide to-"

"Thank you." The terrible uncertainty lingered in Alfred's face, "It's nothing... horribly awful—just. I can't … not right now. Not yet."

"All right then." Arthur wouldn't admit that the whole business had him curious about what sort of thing that Alfred couldn't bring himself to talk about- with all the stolen conversations over the past few years, all the catching up with details about goings-on of other nations and bosses- there wasn't much that they hadn't covered. Sometimes it had been as involved as European history, others, as simple as the lyrics to a scarcely remembered song, half sung to the young man on some of the more difficult days of the recent war.

Anything to distract the boy he loved from the familiar pain of invasion.

_Love?_ England frowned suddenly, letting the silence hang just a fraction too long, and America was shifting restlessly beside him. _Where did that come from?_

"It's the longest night of the year." Alfred said, out of the blue, reaching to grasp the hand on his shoulder. "And quiet- um... I know you're my guest, but I wondered if you would-"

"What would you like me to read to you this evening, Alfred?" England found his smile again, remembering the fond way America seemed to hang on every word read aloud. He took comfort in the words in his personal darkness.

"There's a book that Mattie sent. Poetry- he read me one about snow, and the longest night. It reminded me- I wanted to hear it again." There was a vague gesture towards a table. "'Promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep."

England found the book easily, and almost laughed at the author's name. Frost: so appropriate for one writing about snow and winter. It only took a few minutes to find the poem that America had wanted, and a few more to settle in next to his _friend_ and read it. 

"_...The woods are lovely dark and deep/But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep, and miles to go before I sleep."_

He glanced at the quiet man next to him, watching the melancholy expression that had appeared. The younger might have been thinking deeply- perhaps the echoes of war, perhaps a contemplation of the rebuilding in the future. Of his own size and strength that had been sapped away...

"Alfred?" The somberness rearranged itself into the same shy smile, as though Arthur hadn't been meant to see that particular mood.

"I'm glad you're here for Christmas, Arthur." The low murmur didn't make an echo in the room, "Could you read another one?"

And for the next hour, England did, allowing himself to be more comfortable than he had expected in this parlor, even though the swirl of emotions that both worried him and made him wonder. Arthur loved Alfred, despite past arguments, despite present problems.

He always had, and even if things had changed, if they had become different people, there was still something that pulled England back.

Promises and alliances.

Arthur made silent promise to the enraptured figure, so intently listening, in whose warmth he was basking- never to hurt him again. To make certain that that bright smile returned.

To bring back the joy that had once lit his eyes, and made England want to abandon his responsibilities, and just stay in the beautiful lands and golden presence...

Outside, the wind howled angrily, bringing with it a fall of snow. 


	11. Canada: October, 1781

October, 1781

Virginia winters were mild, compared to those of his lands, and the fall weather that was leading up to them seemed to be as wet as the creeks that cut their path through the muddy banks to the south of the camp.

Mud that seemed to have soaked so much blood from their men already, that it was permanantly stained the rusty colour of men dying, men bleeding, men moaning in pain as they were seen to by the few surgeons that had been with the company. Physicians, who themselves were exhausted beyond measure.

That was why Matthew was there- he hadn't taken any injury of late, and with his own soldiers among the wounded, he felt it necessary to aid the doctors in their rounds. Helping to bandage, to clean- to close the eyes of those who had passed on.

And bring tea and whiskey to those who continued to toil in their thankless task.

Matthew didn't want to fight his brother. Canada just wanted this war to be over, one way or another- but he didn't want to see any more pain. But he had to side with England- he wasn't ready-

The arguments had been repeated in his head for the past six years and more, and yet he was still here, at his colonizer's side- figuratively speaking, of course- doing what he could to hinder his twin's efforts for Nationhood.

Canada sighed, as the man he'd been aiding all day paused in front of the supply tent, and began getting bandages ready for the next batch of wounded that would be brought to them from the front lines of the battle.

England was at that battle, Matthew couldn't help but glance towards where the smoke had managed to choke through the rain in the next valley. Was America there? Was Alfred fighting?

The distant thunder of a cannon died, and was replaced by the patter of rain- it had been a storm coming after all. But rain again- Matthew was so tired of-

The landscape before his eyes turned black, as a sudden sharp pain stabbed through his eyes, into his skull. Tendrils of agony echoed down his spine, rendering his legs useless, and Matthew felt himself falling before he could figure out what had just-

_You used to be so big-_

The words echoed through his mind, as he came back to himself, a hand on his shoulder shaking- the very real voice in his ear, frantically calling the name that he'd been given to blend in with England's and his own soldiers-

"Williams. Williams-"

The tired and kindly face of the surgeon he'd been assisting was watching him with grave concern.

"Sir." Matthew croaked, suddenly feeling his throat go dry, the faint throb and stab of the sudden headache still vibrating within his skull.

"Lad, you should go rest while you have the chance. Can't have you fainting from exhaustion while tending to the boys-" There was a faint smile, "I can handle this task by myself. We'll need you later-"

"A-aye." Matthew managed, trying not to let the words make the pain worse. Where had this come from? And why now, when he was actually being of some use to England, without fighting. "I- I'm sorry, sir."

"Don't worry about it, Williams." The physician said softly. "I don't need to see one as young as you dropping from overwork. You've been on your feet an' marching for far too long. You've earned a rest. G'wan with you."

"Aye, sir." Matthew stammered, and staggered back towards the tents that his men had raised this morning- or had it been yesterday morning? He'd truly been on his feet for far longer than a human should have been- but he wasn't exactly human. But now...

The first riders galloped into camp, just before Matthew opened his tent flap, looking harried, worried and most of all defeated.

Defeated.

"We've surrendered." The taller of the two on horseback told the sentry. "Formalities are forthcoming, and the colonists will be standing guard to make certain we don't do anything more, damn their eyes."

"Americans," Corrected his partner, "They're not England's colonists anymore. We have to accept that-"

So. Alfred had won- Matthew felt a little tiny bit of happiness warming his gut. Whether it was because his brother was free, like he'd wanted to be, or because this damned war was finally over- even if he'd argued with Alfred the last time he'd seen him, now they could maybe try to get along, once England calmed down enough to open diplomatic relations with-

"- bent on finding who it was in the back ranks that fired that shot though. When he fell, I thought for sure we had a chance of winning." The taller was still talking, "Rabble was angry though. Kirkland had already called for a ceasefire- but. Well. He'll be along soon enough. They want to clear the field to find their own wounded, and are letting us take our own men."

Someone important had been shot. Matthew idly wondered if it had been Washington- Alfred had always liked the man. Rambled on about him at their few meetings before things got too heated.

His headache subsided to a dull throb, making him wonder if it was the strain of being so involved in this war that had made his head hurt so- and now that it was over, departing.

The sound of more horses approached, and Matthew could see a familiar blond head bobbing above the dappled mare that he instantly recognized as England's favorite.

Arthur was back, and unharm-

The thought froze as the Nation grew closer, the dark stains on the whites of his uniform showing just as vividly as the smear that marred his pale face. Green eyes were staring ahead, unfocused.

England had been wounded- was Matthew's first thought, as a soldier helped the normally stubborn Nation off of his horse and led him- _led him- _towards the commander's tent. But if England had been wounded, they would have immediately taken him to the surgeons. (Being a Nation, he would be given a certain priority, even if he would heal faster and better than his men.)

No. England hadn't been wounded.

Matthew abandoned his tent, and the idea of rest in favor of finding out exactly what was going on. What was with the look on England's face? It as as though-

The soldiers that had escorted Arthur to the tent walked away to take care of whatever orders their commander had given them. The commander himself was most likely with his men, dealing with whatever formalities that a surrender would entail, and had sent England back- but why? The Nation Matthew knew would have insisted upon being a part of negotiations. He wouldn't have been led back to his tent-

The soldiers passed by him without comment. Just like always, he was invisible to them because he wasn't important- Matthew buried the anger.

Pausing just outside the closed flap, Matthew reconsidered for a moment. Maybe he should just go back to helping the medics. Or to his tent to rest as he had been ordered- but curiosity won over caution, and he reached for the canvas, only to stop again, as he heard an unfamiliar noise from within.

It sounded... it sounded as though England was weeping.

Fabric parted at his touch, and Matthew saw the older man sitting on the edge of the cot, face buried in his hands, and absolutely sobbing.

Canada stopped in shock and discomfort, uncertain of what to do.

England. Crying. The surrender and loss of a colony wasn't that shocking, was it?

Matthew would have expected anger- a cold rage and bitter twist to the lips as Arthur broke things and swore at the loss. Not- this.

"God... no." he heard the softly mumbled words, "Alfred-"

Matthew felt his heart beating in his chest.

"I didn't mean for that-" a hitch in the voice, "If only you hadn't— You'd be-"

_ When he fell, I thought for sure we had a chance of winning_

It hadn't been one of America's generals who had fallen after Arthur's ceding the field.

It had been Alfred.

Body going cold, Canada let the knowledge seep into his mind, realising now- oh god only now- that the headache didn't belong to him, as the little ills and joys that he and his twin had shared over the years echoed back and forth between a pair of linked colonies who shared a continent so intimately-

"Fuck." The first word that popped into Matthew's head was spoken aloud as he let the canvas flap fall.

He ran for the horses, no plan in mind, taking nothing- no one bothered him or tried to stop him as he left the British encampment without comment.

Let England think he was a deserter. All he knew is that if his brother were to die, the last harsh words that had come between them would haunt him for the rest of his existence.

And Canada- no. Matthew, would not let that happen.


	12. Canada: 1781

A week.

An entire fucking week of trying to find out where the Americans had taken his brother.

Matthew was not happy. He was dirty, tired and sore- some woman had tossed an entire bucket of water at him when he'd appeared, and six men had run him out of one of the small towns he'd been trying to get information in. And all the while, the faint pulse of the echo of headache had not diminished. If anything, it was getting worse- not as bad as the initial contact, however. It was still getting more and more difficult to block it out so he could _see_.

He knew, once he'd come to the first one of the towns that was touched by the war that it was a mistake to have run so swiftly from the British camps. He should have taken time to find something other than his uniform to wear. It was cold, however, and as comparatively mild as America's winters were, Matthew did not want to be without proper clothing. Even though the people treated him with mistrust and outright suspicion and hostility, he kept the jacket.

So now, sitting in the remains of someone's garden, he was nearly pulling his hair as he tried to figure out what to do next. The weather was getting colder, his horse needed shelter- as did he- and he was no closer to-

The sound of footsteps through dead grass made the train of thought derail, as Canada's body tensed, going on a high state of alert. If this were anything like the last three encounters...

"The war is over, young man." The voice said, in a tone that was hardly friendly. But at the same time, not hostile either. "You should be heading home, not making camp. Unless you've decided to emigrate."

"I'm not leaving until I find my brother." Matthew said firmly, (Where did this courage come from, this feeling of confidence? He didn't care, so long as he could find Alfred...) He scrambled to his feet. "He was wounded- I don't care if you hate me or England, if he dies without knowing that I love him I will never forgive myself."

The man staring him down was ordinary. Dark hair showing the graying of age, as he stared up at Matthew with a gaze full of intensity and a sharpness that reminded him of how England would ferret out any lies that he or Alfred had told when they were small. He held that gaze, lifting his chin slightly in defiance. Daring the man to say more, or to make fun of his feelings-

To his surprise, the man's stern expression lightened to a faint smile that crinkled around the dark eyes- no less intense now, but the sharpness had been subdued.

"I see that George was correct." A nod to the weary head, "You'll do. Come with me."

"W-what?" Matthew stared as the man turned abruptly. "What do you- I'm not going anywhere until-"

"You want to see him, don't you?" The man cast a glance over his shoulder. "You do resemble him greatly, _Canada_. One of the men will see to your animal."

"How-" Matthew's eyes were wide as he stumbled after the man, "Who are you, and how do you-"

"John Adams. I'm not normally one for subtle words, however in this case I'm certain you understand if I don't automatically trust or attack a Colony who sided with the Nation that is responsible for the state of my own Nation." They reached a dirt street, and a ramshackle farm wagon. "Too much risk involved, especially considering... George wanted to bring you in as soon as he found out that you were looking."

"George-"

"General Washington." Adams climbed in ahead of Matthew, reaching a hand down, "Come now. As much as having you as a hostage would improve the chances of getting a better outcome on the final treaties, and perhaps calm some of the fighting that is still going on between our more stubborn patriots and England's more belligerent forces, this is more important."

"The thought hadn't crossed my mind, sir." Matthew gave a quick glance back along the street, only seeing a few of America's citizens and the few soldiers who had escorted his host. "My brother's condition though-"

The lines on Adams' face tightened, a wince as he took the reins and prodded the horses into a trot. That... did not bode well.

"What have you heard?"

"I- only heard that he fell, and England was covered in blood-" Matthew stopped. He hadn't heard much, so how could he explain-

"Then the British camps know nothing of the nature of America's wounds."

"England knows something, but he wouldn't know that Al's getting worse..."

There was a sharp glance at that, but Adams merely nodded.

"Twins often times are connected beneath the skin." Adams said, "A God-given link that makes them closer than merely brothers. That is why... perhaps you can help. I was concerned that you were not truly connected, and would merely be looking to hasten things, so that … our little republic would die, and our population become a part of you, and thereby England's once again."

"I don't want Al to die, sir." Matthew could feel the tears forming, "But if he does, I- we argued the last time I saw him, and I don't want it to be the last thing we ever- If he- it would be like losing a part of myself, and I couldn't-"

"Calmly, dear Canada." Adams gathered the straps in one hand, and laid a hand on his shoulder, "Alfred is strong, and young. There is still a good chance that ..."

"Call me Matthew, please, Mr. Adams. It would be easier- " Matthew sniffed back the tears that were still threatening, "And please... just tell me what I'm going to be seeing, so I don't cry in front of Al. He doesn't need me to be sniveling while he's ..."

Mr. Adams did precisely that.

Matthew, for his part, listened, and wondered for the rest of their journey if he was really strong enough, would ever be strong enough to keep from crying.

But this was for his twin. He would have to be strong enough for them both.


	13. Canada: Mount Vernon, 1781

Mount Vernon

The battered farmhouse stood amidst fields that had remained, surprisingly, untouched by fire. Perhaps England had been going easy on America's people- there had been many farms put to the torch in Europe in a conflict such as this, but no matter- what few crops that the people had been able to grow and harvest would be scant against the onslaught of winter.

Perhaps England had been right, and America would fail before...

But Matthew couldn't think like that right now. Not with his closest neighbor and brother wounded, and yet the hearts of his people beating so strongly...

"Come, young Matthew." Adams had pulled the horses to a stop, as more of Alfred's people came to aid them, and hasten their entrance. "No time to lose."

Matthew hopped down onto the dirt, one step behind Adams.

A natural shyness hitched his step momentarily as he entered to find the man he had seen few times, and mostly on the other side of the battlefield waiting in the vestibule. Washington. This was his home, after all- and if he and Alfred were as close as he'd heard, it would only make sense for his brother to be brought _here_.

"Canada," The general gave him a tight-lipped smile, "I am grateful that you accepted the invitation-"

"Sir, may I see him?" Matthew interrupted, "Mr. Adams explained a lot on the way, and while we may have been enemies before, the war is over- it was over the moment England dropped his weapon. I will trust that you will do the honorable thing, and not use me as a prisoner."

"You are our guest, Canada." Washington told him gently, "Your brother didn't want to fight you before, and we will not fight you now- and I know that you are not here to continue the hostilities."

A hand clasped Matthew's shoulder, and Canada could feel the kindness and warmth that nearly radiated out of this man, to counterbalance the spine of steel that had carried him through the long war. He nearly burst into tears again. Someone like this deserved the independence that Alfred had just bought. They all did- Even though he wasn't the Nation who could claim this man- these men- he could feel their resolve, their fortitude. It wasn't just through Alfred that he could feel them, they were nearly Matthew's, by proximity, by the wavering heartbeat of the Nation that lay in some bedroom in this vast home-

"This way, young man." Washington led the way, down dim corridors and past doors that remained closed. The door at the end of the hallway opened into a half darkened room that smelled of blood and sickness.

Matthew almost reeled away, but steeled himself to walk across the room, and past a man who was obviously the physician in charge. There was a protest from the man, but it was quickly silenced by the general.

The figure in the bed looked too small to be his brother- too small to be Alfred, who towered over England, who filled a room with his presence. But wheat blond hair stuck out from all angles on the pillow, the prominent cowlick nearly invisible with the tangled mess. The chin was still squared and stubborn, though the flush of fever and the glistening of sweat on his cheek and neck had weakened that stubbornness–

But the bandage over his brother's eyes were what drew pricks of tears in his eyes once again. Even though Adams had told him, it still- his brother's wounds had become inflamed, despite the care of his people. He was restless, feverish- and the results were worse than he'd imagined.

"Al..." Matthew said softly, uncertain of whether his twin was awake or asleep- he was afraid to touch their connection, afraid of what hallucinations and dreams he would find. "Al, I'm here."

"M-Mattie..." A shiver wracked the frail body (When had Alfred ever been frail? How could he be frail, he was Alfred, he was America-) and the mouth worked for a moment, "I won..."

"Yes, Al," Matthew sighed, one hand reaching out to touch the burning cheek. What could he do to help now? He'd run all this way, abandoned England, and been brought here in hopes- of what? What could _he_ do?

"Why... are you here?" The question lay in the air between them like a lump of mud on the clean floor, messy, unnecessary and something that needed to be cleared away immediately before it became too hard to do so.

"You're my brother," Matthew answered, stroking that cheek gently, "And I love you. Why else would I be here?"

"E-england-"

"Won't even notice I'm gone." That produced a soft wheeze of laughter, "He has other things on his mind, and my people are going home, so on the very unlikely off chance that he notices, he'll just assume that I've joined them."

"M-mattie..." The voice was a breathy sigh, most unlike the tones that he was used to hearing- "I w-would have noticed."

"You wouldn't, idiot." Matthew smiled faintly. "You'd be too busy celebrating. As soon as you're done healing, we'll have to have a small party. I'll even make pancakes, and bring the syrup-"

"Always..noticed-" Alfred's protest trailed off, "Mattie..."

"You should sleep, Al." Matthew left his hand against America's cheek for another moment before pulling away, "I'll be here when you wake up."

The barest fraction of a nod, and Matthew tucked the blanket around his brother, watching as breaths became even, shallow. Without even a sleepy murmur, Alfred drifted to sleep, the tension in his face draining away.

Matthew didn't know how long he'd been sitting there, just watching America, studying the way his hair was damp with sweat, how the angry red and bruised skin peeked over the edge of the bandages over his face. It seemed to be the worst of his wounds, which was good- but still bad. And infection- if he were human, Canada knew that the fever would be a death sentence.

"Rest will go a long way towards helping him heal." The physician, stark blackening bruise on one cheek had come close, and was now smiling at him, "Thank you. This is the first time in days that he's been able to stay asleep for this long."

"Your face-?" Matthew wondered.

"A few days ago, he was having a nightmare. I tried to calm him, but- I don't think he'll wake for a while."

"If he does, I'm here," Canada followed the line of cloth with his eyes, wondering if he truly wanted to know what was behind the bandages, or if the darkness on the edge of his vision was merely because he was tired. "I can match his strength- he won't be able to hurt me."

"We are grateful for your presence." Matthew had forgotten that General Washington was nearby- and was somewhat surprised that he had been merely waiting quietly. "I do not pretend to know much about your kind, however, I have a feeling that you being here has given him strength- as much as independence matters to him- and to us- there does come a moment when admitting the need for aid becomes... more of an act of courage than standing up to the entire British Empire."

"I don't..." Matthew swallowed hard, trying not to think of all the implications. "I don't know as much about Nations. I'm only a Colony, but Al- I don't know why he isn't healing as fast as he should."

"So long as he does," Washington's eyes were sad, "I would despair to see my Nation fall so swiftly, and fulfill England's predictions of failure. And I would grieve the loss of Alfred, my son."

"Son..." Matthew could see nothing but kindness in the man's face, even as he gestured towards Matthew to follow him. Alfred's people had given him ideas and desires that went against what England had tried to instill in him. They had also given him the one thing that England could never have given, that a Nation who barely remembered the pain of isolation could not give to a colony this far distant without stretching himself too thin.

Family. Connection. Home.

The love of a parent, at least for a human lifetime.

Washington led him to the room next door- another bedroom, Matthew noted, and paused in the doorway.

"You should rest yourself, Canada. None of the men who are here will allow England to know of your presence. Not unless you so desire. This room is yours for as long as you wish. If there is anything you need- let us know." A faint tight-lipped smile again, "We owe you a debt of gratitude for coming-"

"Call me Matthew," Canada sighed, "I love my brother, sir. And I know he loves me- even if he is a bit dim at times. I had to come. I should have supported him to begin with, and perhaps this wouldn't have happened- so if anything, I am grateful that you've allowed me to be here."

"Canada- Matthew," The man shook his head, "I cannot say what would have happened, however- I can say that we may need your help in the future. I cannot ask for an answer now, but I must bring this forward for your consideration: Will you be willing to become the strength that we need to help America survive and grow?"

"He-"

"Adams told you only what I told him. The last shot took his left eye, and shattered against bone, sending a fragment through his right. My physician is the best on the continent, and with what little we know about Colonies and Nations, he can tell me only that the wound should not have become infected. Canada, unless there is something that we can do, that we don't know about- when he recovers from this, he will be blind."

The dread that had been building in Matthew's stomach returned full force, sending chills through his body. This is what he had suspected, from the little hints given by their connection, by the position of those bandages- the darkness that had been creeping up on him hadn't been entirely his own- and if he did not aid his brother, left him to flounder on his own- how much worse could it be for both of them?

"Let me sleep on it," Matthew said, with the voice of a twin whose heart was broken with his brother's pain. "I have to think."

And with the thoughts of a Colony on the verge of Nationhood, Canada was left alone to sleep, and to think upon all the problems that had just been laid at his feet.

But he knew his answer long before the echo of the door closing left the room silent.


	14. America: February, 1951

February 1, 1951

Another new year had passed, leaving in its wake a new fall of snow, and new resolutions for the coming spring.

Alfred, for his part, was so tired of being inside the house, that he braved the cold to take a walk through his frozen garden, reasoning that he could at least follow the path with cane and a hand to the near frozen shrubberies. Thus, it was, that in the late afternoon that he gave his ever hovering brother and former guardian the slip (And they thought just because he was blind, he couldn't be sneaky- they should really have known better by now-) heading out of the back door in a heavy overcoat and boots, while the pair of them were busy in the library.

It was a nice change, to be on his own, away from the constant _presence_ of people who wished him well- but in a way that sometimes left Alfred wanting to scream.

But the cold.

Halfway down the garden path, Alfred considered giving up- the frigid winter air was starting to pierce through his coat, and he was starting to loose a bit of feeling in his hands. But he wouldn't—couldn't- it was like a mission to prove himself. He could make it to the bottom of the garden and back again, and just casually laugh about it with the others when he returned, chilly, but having gotten some exercise. He'd nearly forgotten what it was like to be on his own.

Alfred had also forgotten about one of the things that made winter so unpleasant, rediscovering it as he started to turn around at the end of the path to make his triumphant return.

Ice.

He yelped suddenly, as he lost his footing, wobbled, and then fell- the cane falling loose from his frozen grip. The clattering of the wood was lost in the sound of his own scuffling footsteps and the hard impact with frozen earth. It took him a full minute to recover his breath, only to have it stolen away again by the cold.

"Fuck." Alfred wheezed, trying to orientate himself. "Fuck-"

The wind picked up, sending a chill along his left leg, exacerbating the realization of an icy burn along the limb. One probing hand found a tear, and a possible damp spot- it was too cold to tell if he had actually skinned his knee, or just torn his trousers. Frowning, Alfred braced himself against the cold earth, pushing cautiously to see if he could stand- if he could stand, maybe he could find the guiding shrubbery, and if he could find the shrubs, he could get back into the warmth of the house that he _swore_ he wouldn't leave this time.

"It's too cold-" he murmured to the wind, which only seemed to laugh at him when his leg slipped out again, sending the knee crashing to the solid surface. "Fuck-"

_You should have asked one of the others to go with you- or told them where you were going-_ a little voice nagged at him, _ But no, weak little America had to go out alone. Should have given up and died and given Matthew a chance. At least Canada can take care of himself._

"Shut up." He told the voices, trying to fight the tears that he knew would come. His knee hurt. His hands hurt. He was cold- "I'm not weak. I'm not giving up-"

_Weak._

Alfred growled, and inched his way along the ice patch, until he could feel a place that wasn't slippery. He had to stand, and once he could stand, he could start working on finding his way back to the house.

However, once he stood, the wind pushed at him, making him stagger- and find more ice.

With another cry, he found himself falling once again.

A sharp crack and lance of pain through his head announced the sudden silencing of his world.

The house was silent.

Far too silent.

Arthur glanced up from his book to where Matthew had dozed off on the settee, and frowned.

He had known his former colonies for a very long time- and even if they had both changed so drastically since- well. Arthur had never known Alfred to be so quiet for this long- even since they'd been reacquainted. And... there was this nagging horrible _feeling_ that he was getting.

"Matthew," Arthur set his book aside, and stood. "Where did Alfred say he was going?"

"To find his radio, I think."

"It shouldn't have taken him this long." Arthur frowned, "He should know where it is by now-"

"He should have been back by now." Matthew agreed with a frown. "But you know how he is-"

"I'm going to go find out what's taking him." The growing sense of urgency had taken root in a knot just below Arthur's stomach.

Matthew paled visibly before Arthur could turn to the door.

"Matthew-"

"Fucking idiot- he-" A visible wince. "He's unconscious. And cold-"

"He went outside? In this weather?" Arthur could feel his voice rise a couple of octaves. "The garden."

Matthew winced, but nodded.

Arthur didn't even wait for him to get up- didn't bother to do more than grab a blanket from the sofa, and a jacket from the coat rack near the door that led to the garden.

Winter's biting chill almost pushed him back into the house.

"That idiot-" Arthur forced himself out the door, and down the treacherous path that had only gained an inch of snow since the last time he'd looked at it. A faded set of footprints showed the way that someone had walked from the house- cautiously staying close to the hedges...

Alfred.

There was no return set.

Arthur picked his way through the dusk lit path, following the footprints to the end. He nearly tripped over the wooden cane that had somehow been tossed aside- nearly slipped on the ice, but for the obvious way in which it had been cleared, and the wind had yet to cover up the place where someone had crawled away from it. Or to cover the far too still form with more than a light dusting of snow.

"Alfred!" Arthur stumbled to his knees, hastily snagged blanket catching the wind and spreading as he reached to touch the pale cold face. "Alfred!"

There was no response.

All Arthur could do, was wrap the blanket around the boy's body, and carefully lift him.

Matthew was only a few steps behind with another blanket, and an expression of utter panic that reminded Arthur of days when the boys were colonies, and Alfred had gotten them into trouble again-

"Inside, Arthur." Matthew steadied his arm, his walk, so that the ice would not claim any more victims this night. "We've got to get him warm. He might be a Nation, but-"

"I know all too well." Arthur murmured into the mop of blond hair against his shoulder, the weight in his arms suddenly feeling far too light- "It means he'll recover, not that he's immune to harm."

And God knows, America didn't need any more harm to come to him.

_ The battlefield was a mess- icy cold rain soaking everything, and making dark mud that turned the soldier's whites to browns and grays. _

_ Arthur- England would hate it, just as he hated the messes that Alfred had brought into the house where he'd been-_

_ But this wasn't the time to think of that. He had Arth- England on his knees, maybe he would surrender. It was about time- Alfred didn't know if he could take much more of this fighting- Everything hurt, and A—England wasn't in much better shape._

_ "England, I'm not your baby brother-" And he wasn't, Alfred hadn't been a baby for a long while, and then there was that whole issue with the word 'brother'- "From now on, I'm independent!"_

_ Art—England's eyes were searching his face, focusing through obvious exhaustion. This would be over soon, and he could rest. They could both rest, and – _

_ "England, I chose liberty. Acknowledge it-"_

_ A spark of something crossed the familiar green, but before Alfred- America- could do more than block the oncoming bayonet with his musket, Arthur charged._

_ A twist, and America's rifle was wrenched out of his hands, making his wrists ache with the force._

_ He stared down the barrel of England's gun, wondering how he's misjudged the other's strength and will- Would Arthur kill America now? Alfred was certain the fear was showing on his face- but he couldn't look away. Wouldn't look away._

_ Would the man who had raised him, held his hand to him now kill him?_

_ "You fool. So naieve..." There were vague orders being yelled behind him, and from the woods behind England. "Idiot... There's... there's no point in firing, is there?"_

_ Arthur fell to his knees before Alfred, and- was he crying, or was that merely the rain?_

_ Was the warmth from Alfred's own eyes tears at seeing Arthur defeated and crying the one who had always filled his world, had always-_

_ "England-" Yes, that was a sob. He'd made Arthur cry- that wasn't – he didn't- But he had to continue. Alfred swallowed hard, "You-"_

_ A sharp crack had no time to echo before something hit him in the eyes- and there was only red tinged darkness and painpainpain. He was falling, or was he standing? Alfred couldn't tell with the dizzy loss of vision, loss of – it hurt, and he was-_

_ Arms wrapped around him, familiar and comforting, and warm. Softly the denials came into his ear with so much heartbreak- but Alfred hurt- it hurt hurt hurt-_

_ "You used to be so big-" Alfred managed to murmur, before it all swam away into a darkness blacker than before._

It was hot- so hot that he was shivering, and Alfred's head throbbed in memory and in the red-tinged darkness that had been his world for so long. His head hurt, his body hurt-

"Alfred?" England's voice was close, "Come on, love, wake up for a moment-"

A hand was in his own, another on his cheek- he couldn't decide if it was hot or cold, but in all, Alfred decided, in the end, it was England, it was Arthur, so it was nice either way.

"Arth- arthur..." His mouth was so dry, and his throat-

"Shh, here's some water, try and drink some- it will help." Hands moving, the hand in Alfred's own was removed. Center of gravity moving, unsteady- but the cool touch of liquid spilling over his lips and into his mouth- heaven. He drank greedily, trying to put off breathing in favor of more water.

"It's all right, love, take your time. Keep breathing." Arthur's voice was calm, soothing- but there was that same undertone of concern. Alfred tried to think about why, and how- and only spun in his darkness, with a calm silence beckoning. "It's all right, Alfred, we'll be here when you wake."

_"Alfred, where are you? It's time to stop playing this stupid game- You have to tell your people-" There was anger in that voice- betrayal, hurt. "They have to stop trying to take me in order to get to England. There's no way-"_

_ "Mattie?" The smell of winter, of cold and maple- "Mattie, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, they wouldn't listen, and they kept going, and I couldn't make them stop, and it hurt- and I'm sure it hurt you too, but they wouldn't- I couldn't-"_

_ "Shh, Al." Cool and strong arms found him in his cold corner, tugged at him, "You can tell me the rest of this later. Right now- you're hurt. Didn't they take care of you?"_

_ "I should be able to take care of myself, Mattie." The dry sobs were catching in his throat. He hadn't felt this helpless since Washington had died. "I'm a Nation, I shouldn't need anyone, right? And you're still England's colony, so I'm not supposed to trust you, but- I- Maybe I should have-"_

_ "Enough, Al." a firm voice, "I won't be a colony for much longer. That's why I was away so long. I should have told you, told them. Maybe they wouldn't have used you like this. I'm sorry."_

_ "I want to be strong, Mattie, I have to be strong. But it's so hard-"_

_ "Al," The sound of a heart breaking, "You don't have to be strong in the same ways as before- use your head. You've... got to be clever. You might not be able to see, or push back as you did before, but you can use your brain, and be smarter than any of them. I'm leaving England- and I'll be your strength. Work on the ideas, and I'll help you. All you have to do is ask. Right now, I'm taking you to my house, and we're going to get you back on your feet. After that, we can work on anything..."_

_ Al could only nod against his brother's chest, the tension of the last decade finally seeping away, and leaving him limp, drawing him into unconsciousness. _

_ The picture of Arthur crying in the rain lingered._

_ Would England be hurt again? That wasn't what he-_

_ Silence embraced him._

"Al?" Matthew's voice this time, and a hand touched his cheek. Hot. Cold. The world was still spinning in his gray and red darkness. "C'mon, buddy. You can wake up for a little bit- I have soup for you. The doctor said you needed something besides water."

"Nmm." Alfred said intelligently, not sure if he could form words. A bit of warmth touched his lips- when had he been moved to a seated position? There was a flavor of chicken, and mild spices-

"There you go." Mattie's voice told him encouragingly. "Just a little more, and you can sleep again."

"Arthur..." Al managed to murmur when his mouth was empty once again. "I..."

"He's resting. You're a real handful sometimes, bro." A humorless chuckle. "C'mon one more bite."

Alfred barely managed to swallow before the silence was returning to claim him.

_Sounds passed him by. Images of his imagination, images of the past. He was floating on half-heard conversations._

_ "I want to go see what the stars are made of!" Al declared, as he and Arthur watched the evening fall, and the points of light dance in the heavens. "I'll do that, and come back, and tell you all about it."_

_ "I'm sure you will," Arthur was laughing as he ruffled Alfred's hair._

_ "I will!" Alfred started to pout, "I'll show you, and I'll bring you one-"_

_ …_

_ Explosions hitting all around- the smell of London in the air, but a London that was burning- and Arthur- he'd just left the pub. Alfred shook Matthew's arm frantically._

_ "Mattie, he couldn't have made it to shelter- we've got to go find him-"_

_ "I'll go look, Al, you stay under cover-"_

_ But he couldn't..._

_ Arthur's sleeping face was troubled. Alfred could feel it as he gently stroked the furrowed brow, listened to the soft sounds of a nightmare._

_ "I didn't mean for this to happen-" Slurred with sleep, the voice made Al want to cry. If he could see Arthur's face, he knew the expression. It was the last one he'd seen- "I didn't want this-"_

_ "I know," Alfred couldn't help but answer, "I understand."_

_ Somewhere, Arthur had heard him, and the furrows lightened, and the flicker of consciousness seemed to be returning- but the Nation should rest while he could. The city was still burning, and Alfred would spare him at least a little of that, if he could._

_ "Rest now." He told England, still brushing soothing fingertips along the warm cheek. _

_ Matthew returned for Alfred at dawn, and he was unceremoniously led onto a plane, listening as Matthew warned the Pilot not to let Al talk him into anything again._

_ He was going home, whether he wanted to or not._

The weight of a hand within his own, and a head on his shoulder awakened him.

Pain had receded, taking with it the unsettling swimming sensation.

A soft sleepy noise sounded from the head that was so close to his own, and Alfred found himself smiling faintly. Arthur.

His limbs felt clumsy as he reached with the free hand to touch the mop of hair that was tickling his chin. Definitely Arthur- Mattie's hair was as soft as his own, but Arthur's was different. But in a good way. Alfred loved to touch it-

"Alfred?" Matthew's voice came from afar. The doorway, maybe. "How are you feeling?"

"M'okay." Alfred answered quietly, still wondering about the sleeping Arthur, and if maybe that fairy he'd confided in had told the older Nation something. "What happened?"

"You don't remember?"

"I-" Al frowned, "I went for a walk, and..."

"You didn't tell us you were going out." Matthew's tone grew closer, a note of aggravation in it. A weight settled on the opposite side of the bed that Alfred now realized he was laying in. "If Arthur hadn't realized you were gone, and woke me up-"

"I slipped." Alfred realized, "On the ice-"

"You hit your head awfully hard, and laying in the snow like that- You've been in and out of it for days." Matthew's hand found his shoulder. "England carried you in, and he's been with you almost every day."

"I remember... a little." Alfred let his fingers card through Arthur's hair one more time before reaching for Matthew. "I'm sorry. I just wanted-"

"I know, Al." Alfred's hand was captured, squeezed. "Freedom was always important to you, but-"

"But I can't have it." Al let his eyes drift closed, changing the gray and red to black once again. "I know, but-"

"Don't-"

"I wanted to do so many things- but-"

"It's all right, Al, to need someone." Matthew sounded like he was choking up himself, "I need you, you know. Not for the same things, but I still need you. You're like a part of me. And Eng- Arthur- I think he would fall apart without you."

"But we hadn't talked for years, and Arthur was-"

"And you were miserable because of it. And from what Francis says, so was Arthur. He cares about you, Al." A squeeze to the hand, "And so do I. Maybe someday we'll find a way to give you a little more of that personal freedom you want- but you've got to be patient."

"Patience was never my strong point." Alfred tried to laugh. "but I'll … try."

"Do." Arthur's voice rumbled from his shoulder, "I'm too old to have to run around in a blizzard because you were being stubborn."

"A-arthur." Alfred could feel his face heating, and he turned his face towards the other man. Gray-red-gray-black. "You-"

"Silly boy." the weight was moved from his shoulder, and the imaginary shadows in the gray-black world went with it. The tone wasn't angry, more fond- "I do... care about you. For you. Alfred, you don't have to prove anything, you don't have to bring me a star- I would rather have you, any day."

Mattie's grip on his hand loosened.

"Arthur-"

"I'll leave you two alone for a bit- if you're up to it, Al, I'll make pancakes for you."

"Y-yeah-"

The sound of a door closing broke the sudden, almost awkward silence.

"Did Bluebell-" Alfred started, then stopped.

"The fairies have been surprisingly good about not saying anything this time." Arthur's tone was wry, "And no, I didn't ask them- You've been rambling a bit in your sleep."

"Oh..." The awkwardness returned. "I- uh."

"The answer is yes."

"But I didn't ask you a question."

"Your face is asking it, dearest." Arthur's voice came closer, bringing the shadow with his voice. Lips brushed against Alfred's cheek. "I do love you."

Alfred closed his eyes, the smile almost hurting his face.

"Why are you crying?" Concern, and gentle fingers wiping away the tears from the corners of his eyes. "Alfred, are you all right?"

Alfred could only respond, at first by throwing his tired arms around the figure that was leaning over him, and pulling him down into a hug.

"I'm happy," Alfred said, at last, "Just... so very happy."


	15. Canada: 1811 to 1817

_My apologies for taking so long to update. I do intend to finish what I started. _

_Hopefully this works for you._

* * *

_December 1811_

The day Mathew arrived home was cloudless, a relief that contrasted with the turmoil and uncertainty in his heart. It wasn't that he ever regretted pledging his aid to the newly established nation (All right, so sometimes he did get frustrated. And wondered how he was ever going to manage to balance his own secret efforts at creating a government and influencing his people with the effort to keep all these efforts away from the officials who reported directly to the palace and England...)

It had been decades since he'd made that promise to his brother, and his brother's father figure.

The next morning, Matthew had shocked them all by appearing with his hair shorn with his own hunting knife- a weapon which the Americans had not even questioned him keeping. For weeks, he split his time between holding Alfred's hand, and keeping him calm, and quelling the fears of the few that knew the Nation on sight. He was grateful to be able to pass for America at that time. **  
**America recovered as the British soldiers withdrew, as the possibility of success rose. As those who sought to leave a scar on the lands as they departed were removed.**  
**Only those who were closest to Alfred were allowed to know the extent of his injury- of the reality that he would be blind for the rest of his life. If anyone who didn't know who he was were to find out- visions of institutions for the handicapped still haunted Matthew. There would be pressure to place him in one of those, and without revealing who he was, there would be little chance that they could avoid it, and even if they did-**  
**That would not be Alfred's fate. **  
**Matthew wouldn't allow it.**  
**England had been far too distracted for that first decade to notice that Canada wasn't where he was supposed to be. His visits had been few and far between, as well as well announced- so there was usually time for him to find some way of managing things.**  
**Matthew sighed, settling into the chair in his parlor. For a moment, at least, he had peace, and no demands on his time. Even Kuma was off somewhere (The poor bear had to be left behind so often, that Matthew made a note to spend extra time with him, lest he decide to wander back into the wilderness and leave his friend without a companion to listen-)**  
**It couldn't last. It didn't last.**  
**The reports of harassment from Europe had been escalating, and Alfred's new boss had been rather set on doing things a certain way, rather than using diplomacy.

A jolt of pain startled him from his musings, and he knocked his teacup off of the edge of the table before he could stop it.

"What the hell was that?"

"Fire." The soft voice announced from the doorway. Somehow the bear had managed to open the back door by himself, and come find Matthew. "War coming."

"Kuma?" Matthew stood, feeling the burn in his limbs, "What do you mean?"

"Bad things," The bear insisted. "Invasion."

"I can tell that, but who?"

"America," was the only answer Kuma would give him.

"I've got to go find out what's going on." Matthew cringed at the thought of going to war with his own brother- his weaker twin, who had absolutely no reason to attack him, except... "The President."

Kuma only nodded, watching Matthew ring for his coat. He had to find out what was going on, and stop it.

* * *

_April, 1814_

Three years.

After the night that he had realised that somehow America's president had convinced his congress to declare war, and to act on it, Canada had not been able to get to Washington DC, where the new capitol had been set up to try and find out what had happened.

Alfred wouldn't have done this, Matthew knew, Alfred had been grateful for all of his secret help, even while he fought to keep the cheerful personality from before the revolution. Alfred knew that Matthew was trying, and nudging, and manipulating his own people to push them towards the same decision that Alfred had made those decades before.

He'd been close, too.

But now England and the British Empire were involved, and he couldn't just sneak away, nor could he send messages, and England was angry. Perhaps it was still anger at America, or perhaps it was because he was being distracted from his current battles with France (Or perhaps the treaties that were being signed, and England was perhaps not sure if he was getting the upper hand...)

In any event, it was three years, and Matthew was once again in the red of a soldier, aching from wounds to his land and his people- sore from marching through his brother's territory. Angry, betrayed. As much as he wanted to believe that Alfred wouldn't hurt him, wouldn't strike out blindly (Ah, that phrase, how apt it was), he wasn't sure.

By the time they got to Washington, he was more than annoyed. The soldiers were impatient (Mostly British), and Matthew was sure there'd be a catastrophe before they were finished. They'd only found civilians, and not many of those. It looked as though there might be a push, but everything was just... strange.

Evening came, and he sat next to the fire, watching the flames lick at the scarce firewood. Matthew relaxed his guard. It had been years since he'd tried to use that odd connection with his brother, but he was tired of this now.

** "**_Alfred, where are you? It's time to stop playing this stupid game- You have to tell your people-" _He tried not to channel his anger into his thoughts, on the off chance that Alfred might pick them up._ "They have to stop trying to take me in order to get to England. There's no way-"_

_ "Mattie..." _ The thought was tired, and weak, and a little sick. "_I'm dreaming again..."_

_ "Alfred, where are you?" _Matthew frowned, looking right through the fire, focusing on the darkness behind his eyes where he was connected... (Why hadn't he thought of doing this before?) "_Alfred? Why did you start a war with me? I was trying to help you."_

Slowly he became aware of the slight ache in his body, his stomach, behind his eyes. Sure Matthew's legs were aching from all the marching, and he had the usual pains of a colony at war, but this was something else.**  
****"**_Mattie?" _The smell of summer and sea and land was being overwhelmed by the odor of vomit and unwashed sheets. _ "Mattie, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, they wouldn't listen, and they kept going, and I couldn't make them stop, and it hurt- and I'm sure it hurt you too, but they wouldn't- I couldn't-"_

_ "Alfred, where are you? Please-"_

_ "I don't know. They took me here, and I don't know what's going on- I just- I want to go home. I don't want to fight you."_

_ "Shh, Al..." _Matthew made the thoughts as soothing as he could, trying to not let the sudden concern that flashed through his mind leak through. What had they done to his brother? "_Shh. I'll find you, just like I did before. Just rest."_

Before he could be reassured by a response, a broad hand shook his shoulder.

"Corporal Williams? We've got to move out. One of the regiments coming from the other route decided it would be a good idea to get revenge for all of the destruction on the boarder, and set fire to their government buildings."

"What?" Matthew was on his feet and brushing off the private's grip on his shoulder. "We're already occupying the capitol, we're already winning- why would we do something like-"

"It's done. It's all going up like tinder right now-" Matthew could smell the smoke, and see the glow from beyond the trees that enclosed their campsite. "We're packing up and moving before it—"

Matthew didn't listen to the rest of the explanation, he was already running towards the burning city.

The flames weren't staying where the soldiers had intended- civilian homes were being caught up in the blaze as it danced from rooftop to rooftop. Government buildings, stores, schools, homes-

And Matthew wasn't even sure where to start looking for his brother, beyond the presidential house. The soldiers had cleared that, however, and from what he remembered of the report, had only found a few servants and a dinner set for the president.

"Come on, Al." Matthew murmured. They wouldn't have left him behind, would they? But the innate directional sense of where his twin was located hadn't moved away from the capitol. "Where did they hide you?"

"_Mattie... It's hard to breathe... I'm sorry, I..." _Rounding another corner, up a street. The feeling grew stronger. The ache in his chest was almost too much- and the fire was getting close.

_"Hang on, little brother," _Matthew desperately looked at the neighborhood. Why here- why- The sign hanging on one of the buildings made his blood run hot and cold, and it took a lot of effort not to leak the rage through to Alfred._ "I'm here. I'm close."_

When they found America's president, he and Canada were going to have a good long talk.

The rooms were shabby, at best, and full of people who had been left behind by their caretakers. Alfred wasn't in any of them- Matthew found him huddled in the basement, dirty, shivering, and far too skinny to be healthy. He'd abandoned his bed for the far corner, open wounds turning the grey of his tunic a dirty rusty colour.

"I'm sorry, Mattie, I tried to be strong, I'm sorry, I'm sorry-" the words were babbled softly as the body in his arms shivered. "They wouldn't listen, and.."**  
****"**Shh, Al," His brother's body was too warm for the cool cellar, possibly feverish. Was this the infirmary? There did seem to be some medical supplies about, but most of Alfred's wounds were not bandaged. "You can tell me the rest of this later. Right now- you're hurt. Didn't they take care of you?"**  
****"**I should be able to take care of myself, Mattie." The dry sobs were catching in his brother's throat. Helplessness and hopelessness radiated off of him in waves. "I'm a Nation, I shouldn't need anyone, right? And you're still England's colony, so I'm not supposed to trust you, but- I- Maybe I should have-" **  
****"**Enough, Al." Matthew made his voice firm. They should be going- the fire would come soon, and he still had to see to the rest of the institute's patients. "I won't be a colony for much longer. That's why I was away so long. I should have told you, told them. Maybe they wouldn't have used you like this. I'm sorry."**  
****"**I want to be strong, Mattie, I have to be strong. But it's so hard-"**  
****"**Al," Matthew could feel his heart clench. How could he have left his brother for one moment? Washington and the others had wanted him to be Alfred's strength- and yet he had to find a way to break free to become that strength- and this was the result. His brother broken and doubting his own abilities, "You don't have to be strong in the same ways as before- use your head. You've... got to be clever. You might not be able to see, or push back as you did before, but you can use your brain, and be smarter than any of them. I'm leaving England- and I'll be your strength. Work on the ideas, and I'll help you. All you have to do is ask. Right now, I'm taking you to my house, and we're going to get you back on your feet. After that, we can work on anything..."

Matthew felt Alfred's body relax in his arms, heard the raspy rhythm of his breaths become calm, and knew that he'd either passed out, or fallen asleep. Either way, he obviously needed the rest- and now Matthew just had to figure out how to get the rest of the residents out, while carrying his brother and figure out how to desert his regiment without calling England's attention to it.

A low and ominous sound broke his concentration.

Was that thunder?

The sound of rain beating the still intact roof of the institution building had hopefully solved one part of his problem- Matthew carried Alfred out of the basement and sought a more comfortable room to start to attend to those wounds. He no longer had to worry about the fire, and the other occupants of this building.

All he had to do now was smuggle America's personification home.

* * *

_October, 1817_

Months later the President of the United States came to visit him to retrieve their national personification, and discuss the terms of the end of the war.

He and his entourage left without Alfred, but with an ear full of terms that Matthew wanted met before he would even consider allowing them to take his brother home. The shame hadn't completely sunk in until he'd told them exactly how he'd found Alfred, Matthew's promise to Washington, and the plans that had been decades in the making to break free from British control.

In the end, they agreed to his terms completely, and apologised to Alfred profusely, with promises to listen more.

It was another year and a half before England himself appeared with France in tow to discuss the final treaty that would officially end the war. Not that there had been any real combat after Canada had convinced his leaders to end it, and quarantine the British troops.

Alfred was still frail, and was falling ill yet again, and Matthew wanted to keep England away from him. Arthur might be wary of meeting him, but not as wary as Matthew was of allowing him near his little brother. Canada had grown in the past few years, where America had not. Still, the meeting was short, and to the point.

Canada would have his freedom, his people would have their freedom. If England refused- which from the tired look on his face, he doubted it- British soldiers would be forcibly ejected from his land.

"England, I choose liberty." The words echoed, a harder edge to them than Canada had intended, however—he was nervous. This was the moment that he had worked for. "I choose to be independent. What do you say?"

"Where is America? How is-"

"He and I have come to an agreement, which is none of your business anymore." Matthew covered the surprise with anger. What right did England have to come here and ask about the one he had hurt after nearly thirty years. "What is your answer?"

"I will acknowledge it."

France gasped, showing the shock and relief that Canada dared not let escape.

After they settled business as Nations, Matthew went to tell Alfred.

"I did it. I can help you openly now. I'm free."

The tight hug, might have been marked by tears, but neither one of them would ever admit to it.


End file.
